


A Friend in Need

by JJJunky



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris and the Doctor run into trouble while trying to offer assistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Friend in Need

A Friend in Need  
By JJJunky

 

Janeway wistfully studied the blue and white planet that filled the viewscreen. Though the configurations of the continents were vastly different from those on Earth, it still reminded her of home. From the looks of longing on the faces of her crew, she could see that she wasn't the only one to make the comparison. Calling on the discipline she'd nurtured since their abrupt arrival in the Delta Quadrant, she commanded, "Mr. Tuvok, report."

"It is as it appears, Captain," the Vulcan security officer replied. Skilled hands flew across the console reading the information with a speed few humans could match. "It's an m-class planet with a population of approximately two billion people. I'm registering high levels of carbon monoxide which indicated an industrial society."

"Are there any areas where we could obtain food stores without encountering the natives?"

"Only one of the continents is currently in the temperate zone conducive to growing agricultural substances, and it is heavily populated."

Disappointed, Janeway muttered, "I guess there won't be any new dishes on the menu tonight. Mr. Paris, prepare to leave orbit."

"Captain," Kim excitedly called, "I"m receiving a transmission from the surface."

Hiding her surprise behind her captain's mask, Janeway ordered, "Put it on screen."

"I'll try, Captain," Kim warned, "but their equipment is extremely primitive."

"Do the best you can." Janeway stood in front of the viewscreen, her hands on her hips. When the snowy picture finally cleared enough for her to distinguish a humanoid male, she introduced herself, "I'm Captain Kathyrn Janeway of the Federation Starship Voyager."

"Welcome, Captain," the picture wavered, distorting the man's features. "I'm Nikoma Yalanich, Cymalee of Czalit."

"We're a little surprised that you were able to detect our presence, Cymalee," Janeway admitted.

Yalanich's smile was almost predatory, "We have begun to reach for the stars ourselves. Primitive by your standards, I'm sure. Still we've been making remarkable progress."

Though she couldn't see the bearded face clearly, Janeway felt uneasy. There was something about the Cymalee she didn't trust. His facial hair and mane reminded her of an African lion. Canine teeth overlapped his lower lip, giving him a feirce appearance. Maybe it was this feature that made every instinct in her want to end the transmission and order Paris to take them out of orbit. Only an ingrained sense of courtesy prevented her from doing so.

"Unfortunately," Yalanich continued, "we have not had the same success in the medical field as we have in the sciences. My son and heir is ill. Would you have a healer?"

"We do," Janeway unhappily admitted, almost wishing the doctor was still confined to sickbay. At least then she could deny his services with a clear conscience.

"Excellent, excellent," Yalanich clapped his hands much as a small child would, palms together with the fingers extended. "How soon can you land?"

"Voyager was built in space and is unable to land," Janeway lied.

"Oh dear. Then how can the healer help my son?"

Having discovered early that the transporter was one of their biggest advantages in the Delta Quadrant, Janeway decided to keep its existence secret. "We have smaller craft we call shuttles. I can send the doctor to you aboard one of them."

"How wonderful," the shrill voice rose higher. "I can hardly wait to see such a wondrous machine."

As she crossed to stand behind Paris, Janeway noticed that the Cymalee's eyes eagerly followed her. She shivered, uncomfortable under the serpentine stare. "Where would be the most convenient place for Mr. Paris to land?"

"There is a square outside the palace," Yalanich said, his eyes focused with a strange intensity on Paris. "A gold sphere will guide you."

Janeway nodded her understanding, "The doctor will be with you shortly."

Disappointment flashed across the ruddy features, "Your presence would also be welcome, Captain."

"I'm sorry," Janeway said, barely managing to suppress her distaste at meeting the pompous Cymalee, "I have duties that cannot be delegated."

"I understand," Yalanich smugly sneered. "After all, I am a leader myself."

Afraid she might say something she would regret, Janeway snapped, "Until later." A wave of her arm indicated that Kim should end the transmission.

"Now that's what I call a caring father," Chakotay muttered, shaking his head. "He seemed more interested in our technology than in what the doctor can do for his son."

"I agree," Janeway thoughtfully noted. Putting a hand on Paris' shoulder, she said, "Tom, when you leave the shuttle, don't take any tricorders or phasers. And, don't allow any Czalits on board. A mercy mission is one thing, but we don't want to be responsible for altering the balance of power."

"Aye, Captain." As Paris rose from his station, he asked, "How about the medical tricorder?"

Janeway stared at the cold planet before reluctantly allowing, "I suppose the Doctor will insist on taking one."

"Undoubtedly," Chakotay agreed, smiling. "If you let him, he'd take half of sickbay."

"You're probably right," Janeway frowned. "In that case he should be happy that I'm letting him take a tricorder. But that's it," she emphasized, "Nothing else."

"Yes, Ma'am." His face showing his eagerness to proceed, Paris bounded up to the starboard turbolift. A quick glance at Kim was his only sign of farewell.

With a heavy heart, Janeway watched him go. Had she been too hasty in her decision? Would more facts provide her with the excuse she so desperately sought to abort the mission? Was this unknown child's life more important than the crewman she'd ordered to complete the mission?

***

Yalanich struck his desk with his fist. Things were not proceeding as he'd planned. If the spaceship didn't land, his soldiers couldn't capture its crew. Unless, this shuttle they were sending could be used to transport his troops to the larger ship? "Crillinozki," he said, facing the commander of his most elite military force, "this Paris, make him tell you the layout of his ship. The most vulnerable areas. We'll use this shuttle to capture it."

"Do you care if he's damaged?" the Kestado asked.

"No," Yalanich decided. "These people are too trusting to be retaliatory. Even if our attack fails, they'll do nothing."

"And the Healer?"

Fear flashed across the Cymalee's face. "He is not to be harmed. Unless, he is unable to cure my son. Then, you can do what you like."

"My men are ready Your Greatness. We will succeed as we always have," the Kestado confidently assured his superior.

"I know you will," Yalanich cruelly smiled, "you know what your fate will be if you fail."

The other man noticeably paled, "Your will be done, Your Greatness."

"Naturally."

***

"This is so exciting!"

Tom Paris smiled at his companion's exuberance. The Doctor was acting more like a child on vacation, than a Starfleet officer on an away mission.

The device they'd obtained on their recent visit to twentieth century earth that allowed the Doctor to leave sickbay was proving its worth. If the Doctor was as successful as he'd said he'd be, maybe Voyager could request some badly needed stores in return. Then, everyone would be happy.

Though he would never show it, Paris was excited as his companion. It would feel good to have his feet on solid ground again and gaze up at a blue sky. A holodeck program just couldn't provide the same sensations as the real thing. Unlike most of his shipmates, Paris wasn't eager to return to the Alpha Quadrant. He'd left nothing behind that he missed. Once in awhile, however, he did yearn for the opportunities that shore leave planets provided.

Hands flew across the console, adjusting the shuttle's descent. Opening communications with Voyager, Paris said, "We should be landing in approximately three minutes, Captain."

"Contact us if you feel in the least bit threatened," Janeway reminded him. "We'll beam you back on board."

"Understood, Captain."

Ornate structures rose up to greet them. The tallest was about six stories high. Efficiency had been relegated to a non-essential status. The elegance of the architecture was extremely pleasing to the eye, though for the most part, from what Paris could see, non-functional. Still, each had an opulence that took his breath away. A gold sphere towered above the other buildings, guiding them to a large square. With a skill and finesse his audience would never appreciate, Paris gently lowered the unwieldy craft.

The Doctor's fingers fumbled with his safety harness. "Did you see those buildings? It must be a very artistic culture. I can hardly wait to meet them."

"Easy, Doc," Paris cautioned, reaching over to assist the excited physician. "It's been my experience that things aren't always what they seem."

Slapping at the helping hands, the Doctor sternly reprimanded, "If you're trying to dampen my enthusiasm, Lieutenant, you won't succeed."

"Just be ready for anything," Paris cautioned, punching buttons to lock the flight controls.

Leading the way to the entrance, he pressed the sensor that would open the doors. A biting wind slammed him in the face when he stepped out. His eyes watered, momentarily blinding him. When his vision cleared, Paris was surprised to see men in ankle length gray coats surrounding them. They were all very tall. The shortest was a good six inches taller than Paris. Each was armed with a long cylindrical weapon that was similar to the rifles that had been common on Earth up until the twenty-first century. Feeling the threat the grim-faced soldiers presented, Paris quickly pressed the control that would close and lock the shuttle's doors. The technology within must be protected at all costs. His other hand pressed the com badge on his shoulder. He had a feeling that if they didn't beam out now, they never would. "Cap . . ."

Something cold and hard slammed into the side of his head sending him crashing to the ground. The breath knocked out of him, he stared up at his attackers. A heavy boot slammed down across his throat, while other feet pinned his hands. He winced as sharp rocks tore into the tender flesh. His battered cheek protested when the muzzle of a rifle was forced between his teeth and halfway down his throat. Barely audible through the roaring in his head, he heard Janeway's cries for him to report. Shifting his gaze, he searched for the Doctor. He finally found him standing outside the shuttle doors. Dark eyes stared at him in horror.

A man, the bright scarlet collar on his coat distinguishing him from his comrades, stepped up to the scared physician, "You will answer your Captain. You will tell her everything is all right. Or," pointing to Paris, the man advised, "we will kill him."

The Doctor's eyes rested briefly on Paris, before he nodded reluctant assent, "Captain?"

"Where's Lieutenant Paris?" Janeway demanded.

"He was just about to contact you and let you know we arrived safely when the Cymalee asked to speak to him. Would you like me to interrupt them?"

"No," the reluctance in Janeway's voice was clearly audible. "Just keep in touch. Voyager out."

If his breathing hadn't been impaired, Paris would've sighed with relief, the Doctor's bold question had put the Captain's immediate fears to rest, buying them some time.

The boot scraped across Tom's throat as it was slowly lifted off. He gratefully filled his empty lungs, coughing when the cold air entered the warm organs. The action made his chest constrict, increasing his discomfort. Dragged to his feet, his arms were pulled behind his back until his shoulders protested the treatment. A soft groan escaped his lips. The concern on the Doctor's face made him wonder if he looked as bad as he felt. From the waves of pain that radiated around his left eye and cheek, he was certain something was broken.

"Take those ornaments," Scarlet Collar ordered, pointing to the communicators. A nod of his head was sufficient to include the transmitter on the Doctor's arm. "That as well."

"No!" Paris protested, struggling against his captors. "You'll kill him."

Scarlet Collar thoughtfully fingered the device that allowed the holographic doctor to leave sickbay. "Is this true?" he demanded, pushing a scowling face into his captive's.

"In a sense," the Doctor calmly confirmed. "While I'm not alive as you would define life, I would certainly cease to exist if you remove my transmitter."

"If you're lying, he will suffer," Scarlet Collar said, indicating Paris.

"I'm not lying," the Doctor reassured him.

Running steps echoed loudly in the square. A gray clad soldier, indistinguishable from his comrades, splashed through puddles to join the group huddled outside the shuttle. A hand crossed his chest in a salute as he came to attention, "The Cymalee requests that the Federation doctor be brought to the palace immediately."

Scarlet Collar frowned, "He will be brought as soon as I decide it's safe."

"I will inform the Cymalee." The soldier turned on his heel. He'd barely taken a step when his superior stopped him.

"You may take the healer." Pointing to four of the guards, Scarlet Collar growled, "You will accompany him."

Paris' eyes briefly met the Doctor's before the physician was hauled away. It was a rough introduction for a man who'd only recently become free to travel outside sickbay. Paris could only hope he could handle all the new emotions he was certain to be introduced to in the next few hours. No simulation could prepare you for an away mission gone wrong. There were too many unknown variables.

"Now then, Lieutenant," Scarlet Collar's tongue formed awkwardly around the alien word, "you will show me how to get into this ship of yours."

Knowing that he must protect the instruments - and weapons - contained within, Paris shook is head, "I'm sorry, I can't do that."

Scarlet Collar nodded at the man gripping Paris' right arm. A fist punched into Paris' abdomen doubling him over. Blood trickled down his chin from where he'd bit his lip, "I take it you won't take no for an answer?"

***

Janeway stared at the blue and white planet, but this time it didn't look so inviting. Her initial conversation with the Cymalee had been less than reassuring. This, coupled with her brief communication with the Doctor, had left her uneasy. She was tempted to contact Paris, feeling a strong need to talk to him. She hesitated only because she didn't want to destroy the confidence that she'd worked so hard to instill in the young man. He might think that she was checking up on him. That she didn't trust him. It wasn't fair to destroy that on a whim. A feeling. Patience had never been one of her virtues. Now was a good time to strengthen a character flaw.

"Captain," Chakotay softly disturbed her introspection, "the pool table awaits."

Forcing a smile, Janeway asked, "Are you feeling lucky tonight, Commander?"

"The law of averages says I have to win sometime."

"Laws can be broken."

"Surely not by a Starfleet captain?"

"There's always a first time for everything." Janeway relaxed, enjoying the exchange.

Chakotay indicated the turbolift, "We're both off duty. Would you care to test your theory?"

"I would." Leading the way out of the pit, Janeway said, "You have the con, Mr. Tuvok. Contact me the minute you hear from the Away Team."

Though the Vulcan's face remained impassive, Janeway could hear a distinct tone of insult in the deep voice.

"Of course, Captain."

Feeling like a mother hen who's children were making their first foray away from the nest, Janeway entered the turbolift. Sometimes, she wondered why she ever wanted to be a Captain.

***

As he was led to the most elaborate building facing the square, the Doctor looked back to see Paris on his knees beside the shuttle. What had they done to him now? Concern etched on his face, he attempted to return. The hand that closed around his arm felt like a steal band. "Please," he pleaded, "I must return to my companion. He needs me."

Without a word, the guard continued to drag his prisoner into the palace. It was the same guard who's gun barrel had rested inside Paris' mouth.

The Doctor shuddered as the image replayed in his head. He'd never felt so helpless. He remembered how the man's index finger trembled on the trigger. Though he didn't know much about ancient firearms, he was certain that Paris wouldn't have survived if he hadn't placated the Captain. The transporter could not have retrieved them in time. Not even he could repair a destroyed mind. The memory of that finger on the trigger would haunt him forever.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Doctor."

The opulence of the room he'd entered made the Cymalee's words a mockery. Intricate tapestries covered the walls giving the room a gloomy appearance. The atmosphere was lightened by the floor to ceiling window at the far end of the enormous room. Furniture made of a heavy, dark wood-like substance was scattered haphazardly. Each piece had obviously been designed for appearance rather than comfort.

"Would you care to join me for a little snack, Doctor?" Yalanich waved to a table weighed down with delicacies the Voyager crew could only dream about.

"I don't require sustenance," the Doctor impatiently snapped, his voice echoing in the vast chamber. "I would prefer to return to Lieutenant Paris."

Yalanich ignored the request and filled a plate with a sampling from each of the dishes. Popping a grape-like fruit into his mouth, he shook his head, "Your companion has a job to do, just as you have, Doctor. He will not be joining us."

Surprised by the finality of the statement, the Doctor nervously asked, "What kind of job could Mr. Paris possibly be employed in?"

"Information. I have many enemies. Those abroad who seek to destroy me with bombs and guns. And, those from within who wish to replace me. Unless you save my son, they will succeed."

"I have no interest in your power struggle," the Doctor disdainfully growled. "My only concern is my patient."

"Good," Yalanich nodded, juice dribbling down his chin. "I can see we are going to get along just fine."

***

As consciousness returned, his hand instinctively lashed out in self-defense. Instead of connecting with yielding flesh, it slammed into a stone wall. Fingers scrapped along the rough surface. This new pain brought Paris back to full consciousness and a world as black as his thoughts. As he sucked his bleeding knuckles, he tried to sit up. His head crashed into the low ceiling. Rubbing the lump on the back of his head, he decided he didn't need any more bruises to add to the ones he'd already received. Hands outstretched, he carefully inspected the dark prison.

It was a short inspection. Approximately two feet high and wide, by three feet long, the room was too small for him to sit up in without banging his head. And too short to allow him to stretch his legs. The rough surface of the stone walls scrapped exposed flesh, making any unnecessary movement undesirable.

He shivered from fear as well as the penetrating cold that his uniform couldn't shield him against. What kind of people had they encountered? He'd seen the eyes of the guard who'd thrust the muzzle into his mouth. He'd watched as the right index finger twitched eagerly on the trigger. And, he'd seen the disappointment when the standoff ended. What kind of creature enjoyed killing? Enjoyed inflicting pain? He'd heard the guards laughing as each took a turn punching him. One had kicked him in the side so hard, he was afraid his kidney had stopped functioning.

The door swung open. Rusty hinges squealed in protest. Paris' aching head throbbed in commiseration. His initial hope that he'd been rescued was quickly dashed. Though the bright lights partially blinded him, he'd caught a glimpse of a familiar scarlet collar. "Is it time for round two?" he asked.

Paris didn't resist when they wordlessly dragged him from his prison. It would only result in another beating. Badly outnumbered, he would have to chose the time and place to fight back. 

He was led down a long corridor. Cells lined both sides. From the nature of the society he'd observed so far, he knew that none would be empty. A door at the end of the hall stood open. Paris had no time to evaluate his new surroundings before Scarlet Collar grabbed his shoulder and slammed him into a wall.

"You've had time to realize what we're capable of," Scarlet Collar said, pacing in front of his prisoner. "Will you open your space craft?"

Paris nervously bit his lip, before shaking his head, "I can't."

When the guards started moving in around him, Paris decided now was a good time to fight back. The side of his right hand lashed out, striking one of the men in the throat. At the same time, his left foot kicked another guard in the groin. He didn't have the opportunity to see if the Czalits anatomy was as similar to humans as it appeared, before he turned his attention to another assailant. From the scream of pain his kick elicited, he had to believe it was.

He managed to land a few more punches and kicks before he was finally overwhelmed. As he was carried to a table, he had the satisfaction of seeing one of his attackers limping. Two others were sporting black eyes and a third a split lip. Not bad considering the odds were six to one. Seven, if you counted Scarlet Collar.

Dropped on the table, Paris' arms and legs were quickly strapped down. At a more leisurely pace, the guards drew leather straps across his chest and hips. Not even the respect he saw in one pair of eyes could still his jangling nerves. When his hands were placed in cradles, each finger separated by a piece of wood, he started to panic. He was a pilot. His hands were his life - and Voyager's. For the first time in years, he felt needed. How could he let them take that away from him? Were they advanced enough to take advantage of the technology in the shuttle? Was he sacrificing himself, his career, for nothing?

"Open the space craft," Scarlet Collar ordered.

Paris' mouth was so dry, he couldn't speak. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and waited for what was to come. He didn't wait long. They started with his left hand. One of the guards turned a crank. The high-pitched squeal of un-oiled gears made Paris wince. Ever so slowly, the blocks of wood encasing his fingers squeezed together.

At first, Paris only felt a numbness when the circulation was impeded. As the crank kept turning the pain conversely intensified. Caught between the unyielding slabs of wood, delicate bones began to break. Crushed inside their own little prisons.

His stomach churning, Paris' eyes flew open. He felt even sicker when he saw the intense pleasure on the faces of his guards. His body arched trying to escape the terrible pain. The straps dug into his flesh, increasing his agony. Tears filled his eyes as the muscles in his arms and legs spasmed in sympathy. A scream, built on rage and pain filled his throat, but he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of giving it voice.

Soon, a second crank screeched in unison with the first. Pressure built in his right hand. Above the noise of the gears and the laughter of the guards, Paris heard the crack as one bone broke, then another, and another, until he heard no more.

***

The Doctor followed the servant through a maze of corridors. Anyone else would've been lost, but he knew exactly where they were. Normally, he would've been proud of his achievement, boasting loud and long of his knowledge to anyone who would listen. Somehow, he knew this man wouldn't be impressed. Grieg displayed classic signs of abuse, head bent, shoulders hunched, he walked with a limp. The result, the doctor had instantly diagnosed of a broken bone that had been improperly set.

Tired of his own bleak thoughts, the Doctor asked, "Is it much further to the Cymachee's quarters?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"What you consider far," the servant dispassionately observed.

Disappointed by the exchange, the Doctor decided to try a different tack, "I could fix that leg for you."

"Why bother?" Grieg replied, "they would only break it again the next time I was too slow carrying out their orders."

Amazed and shocked, the Doctor gasped, "Someone broke it deliberately? What kind of place is this?"

"On Czalit, the punishment matches the crime," Grieg explained, his face as expressionless as a Vulcan's.

"That doesn't make any sense. Breaking your leg could only have slowed you down more."

"I've learned my lesson. I'll never dawdle again." Grieg stopped in front of a massive set of double doors. Throwing all his weight and strength against one, he managed to open it far enough to allow entrance. Waving the doctor inside, he said, "These are the Cymachee's quarters."

When Grieg stepped out, the door started to close between them. Surprised, the Doctor caught the edge and held it without difficulty, "Where are you going?"

"I must return to my duties."

Noting the fear on the servant's face, the Doctor released his grip. He didn't want to be responsible for another broken leg. Shifting his attention to the room he'd entered, he saw the opulence that was prevalent throughout the palace, but he also saw a touch of humanity that had been missing in the Cymalee's quarters. Pillows lay on the floor next to furniture that had been turned on its side or back.

"Do you like my fort?"

The Doctor shifted his gaze to the doorway leading into another room. Leaning against the jamb, his face pale, was young boy. Though he looked younger, the Doctor knew the Cymachee had just turned twelve. "I'm afraid I don't know much about forts, but it looks formidable to me. If my colleague were here, he could make a more comprehensive evaluation."

"You talk funny," the Cymachee said, wrinkling his nose. "Are you the Federation doctor? Will you make me well?"

"I'll do my best, the Doctor replied, laying his medical kit on an upturned couch. "If you'll come over here and sit down, we'll get started."

The boy walked slowly to the pillow directly in front of the physician. His face was pinched with pain as he kneeled, "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I've only just started your tests."

"I don't mean with me. What's wrong with you?"

Surprised at the boy's perception, the Doctor explained, "I'm worried about my friend."

Cocking his head in puzzlement, the boy asked, "What is a friend?"

Until the Cymachee forced him to, the Doctor hadn't really evaluated the term. He'd used the word without thinking, not realizing that it had special meaning. How did he explain it to someone whose world discouraged relationships? He could give the dictionary version, a patron or supporter; a person on good terms with another; one not hostile. But none of those definitions defined the true meaning of the word. The crew of Voyager had taught him that. From what he'd learned, Lieutenant Paris was his friend. "A friend," he explained, "is someone who cares more about you than he does himself. One who would risk his life for you."

The boy snorted, "No one would do that." 

"In my world they do it all the time."

"They must be very foolish."

"I thought so once myself."

"What happened to change you mind?"

"I made a friend." The Doctor smiled as he thought about Kes. "Through her, I made more friends."

The boy struck a pillow with his fist, "It doesn't sound like a very efficient way to run a world."

"It doesn't does it," the Doctor agreed. "Yet, somehow it works."

"My father would never allow such a relationship."

"I pity your father."

The boy's head snapped up. Dark eyes studied the doctor in amazement, "Would you really die for this friend you're worried about?"

"I would," the Doctor replied, without hesitation.

"Doesn't that scare you? You don't want to die, do you?"

Switching his tricorder on, the Doctor shook his head, "No to both questions. But, if I could save Mr. Paris' life, I'd feel great relief and gladness."

"You wouldn't feel anything if you were dead," the boy logically pointed out.

"I'd have those few seconds before I died."

"And that would be enough?"

"It would."

"I will have to study on this friend business."

"Why don't you do that while I run some tests," the Doctor suggested, training his tricorder on the boy's chest. "If I don't get to work, I'll never find out what's wrong with you."

***

Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Paris gritted his teeth to keep from screaming and silently prayed that the steps wouldn't stop outside his door. Guilt gnawed at him. If they didn't take him, they would take someone else. That was something he'd already learned in his short stay, the guards never left empty handed. Was it so wrong of him to want it be someone else's turn? He cursed them for making him so selfish. He didn't want to be like the person he'd been before Voyager, before Janeway. Not ever again.

When the footsteps finally faded in the distance, he allowed himself to breathe. Why was he so scared? What more could they do to him? They'd already taken away his ability to be a pilot. Crushed beyond recognition, his hands lay on his thighs, useless. Numb to the constant pain, he blindly stared at the deformed fingers, remembering the white bone that had protruded through the tore flesh. Would they ever fly across a control panel with the speed and grace they once had? Or, would he become a burden? Unable to do the simplest task. Forced to depend on his friend's compassionate nature to survive day to day.

After years of wandering, selling his skills to the highest bidder, he'd finally found a home - and friends. It was a gift he'd thought he would never receive after Caldik Prime. Harry Kim had been the first to dismiss his past. Then, the challenge of the Delta Quadrant had drawn Starfleet, Maquis and a certain soldier of fortune together making them forget old hatreds as they fought to survive. Who he'd been was no longer important to most of the crew. It was what he'd become that mattered. As the chief pilot, Paris had gained respect and more friends. It'd been so long since he'd had any, he'd almost forgotten how to be one.

Footsteps clattered on the stone floor. The sound echoed in the small cell. This time, Tom knew they were coming for him. Bile rose in his throat threatening to choke him. He hoped that the fear twisting his stomach into knots didn't show on his face. He didn't want them to have the satisfaction of knowing their tactics were working.

The door swung open. Two rifle barrels poked through the opening, waving him out. Paris smiled grimly. They weren't taking any chances this time. Obviously, they were unaccustomed to prisoners who fought back. He might be losing the war, but at least he'd won a skirmish.

He scooted through the entrance on his elbows. The guards kept a respectful distance, their weapons aimed and cocked. Climbing to his feet, Paris wondered if he'd stay there. Weakness gripped him making him sway. He'd no sooner regained his equilibrium when a hand swatted his shoulder pushing him along the hallway. With stumbling steps, he obeyed the silent command.

The room they entered was much like the first. The only difference was the pole in the center. It was almost as big around as a large tree trunk. Paris couldn't even begin to image what its purpose could be. This time, he didn't resist when they led him to it. There was nothing to be gained by fighting back anymore. They wrapped his arms around the pole and tied ropes to his wrists. These, they secured to rings that hung about two feet above Paris' head. Blood drained from his abused fingers making them throb. Finding an outlet for his fear, he concentrated on the pain.

Hugging the cold metal, his shoulders screaming in protest, he nervously waited in anticipation. A loud crack almost deafened him. Seconds later pain seared across his back. He could feel the flesh on his back tear apart. His breath escaped him in the wake of this new agony. Another crack and another lash left him gasping. The whip caught his uniform, tearing it and the tender flesh underneath. A scream rose in his throat, but he had no energy to give it voice. Lash after lash struck his back, legs and buttocks until he lost count.

When the whipping stopped, he almost cried with relief. He knew he would do almost anything to keep it from starting again. Through the tears that blinded him, Paris saw Scarlet Collar. Though it took all the strength he had, he defiantly raised his head.

"You will let us on your spacecraft now, yes," Scarlet Collar confidently proposed.

"No." Though his mind pleaded with him to comply, Paris shook his head, "I . . . can't."

"Can't," Scarlet Collar clarified, "or won't?"

"No. . . difference."

"Yes there is, one brings relief the other pain."

"Can't . . . and . . . won't."

Scarlet Collar slapped the pole with a gloved hand making his prisoner flinch, "Then you want more pain?"

"I . . . can't," Paris breathlessly repeated, bracing himself.

Leaning close, Scarlet Collar whispered, "You will break. Why suffer any more?"

"Oath."

"Is this oath worth the price you're paying?"

"Yes," Paris replied, without hesitation.

"We shall see." Waving his hand as a signal to proceed, Scarlet Collar backed away.

Paris waited for the whipping to resume. Instead, he felt something small and light thrown on his back and legs. Puzzled, he tried to turn his head to see what they were doing. White crystals struck him in the face. A few landed on his lips. Licking tentatively at the substance, he grimaced at the salty taste.

He had no sooner identified the substance, than small explosions of pain erupted where the tiny pellets had entered the open wounds. Muscles tensed in sympathy and started to spasm. He tried to mentally crawl away from the pain, but there was no escape. Burying his head in his arm, he filled his mouth with his uniform. Sharp teeth tore at the unyielding fabric, muffling his screams.

***

The Doctor frowned as he entered the reading into his tricorder. Not all the tests were complete. However, the ones that were only added to his puzzlement. Apparently, none of the combined doctors who'd provided input for his program had encountered a problem like this one before. He had resigned himself to the realization that only skill and intuition would provide the answers he sought.

In the hours since he'd begun to conduct his research, the boy had suffered through two attacks. Both times, he'd been doing nothing more strenuous than talking. The bouts of severe pain, localized along the left side of his face, lasted mere minutes, but were so debilitating it too far longer for him to recover.

"Do friends tell each other their names?"

Surprised by the sudden question, the Doctor looked up from his tricorder. This was the first time the Cymachee had spoken since his last attack. "Yes, friends usually exchange names."

"Are we friends?"

"Not exactly, I'm a doctor and you're my patient."

"Does that mean you can't tell me your name?"

"No,' the Doctor admitted, uncomfortable under the intense gaze. "I can't tell you my name because I haven't chosen one yet."

The boy cocked his head in puzzlement, "Why didn't your parents give you a name?"

Feeling that the line of questioning was getting dangerous, the Doctor asked, "Is it permissible for me to know your name?"

"It's Jormunrekiv," the boy unhappily revealed. "Awful isn't it?"

"At least you were given one," the Doctor jealously whispered. "It is a mouthful," he loudly agreed. "Would you mind if I call you Jorry?"

The boy's eyes sparkled, "Does that mean we're friends?"

"We're getting there," the Doctor cautiously offered. "Friendship can take time, especially for people from different cultures. As we learn about each other, we become vulnerable. To bare yourself, your emotions, is a great gift and not given lightly."

"It sounds wonderful," Jorry sighed. "I never knew there was such a relationship, that someone could care for me because of who I am, not because of my title."

"Surly your parents do," the Doctor protested.

"I'm not allowed to see she who gave birth to me. That is our custom."

"There's still your father. He was so worried about you he contacted us."

Bitterness made the young face look old. "He's worried about himself. I'm his only male heir. If I died, his younger brother, who has three sons, would become Cymalee. Our laws state that the Cymalee must have a male heir."

"What would happen to your father?"

"He would be beheaded lest he should try to regain his position by having more offspring."

The Doctor shuddered. What an oppressive society. When even the leader lives in fear, what hope can there be for the general population? Was he doing the planet a favor by treating its next Cymalee and perpetuating its tyrannical leadership?

"What else do friends do?" Jorry eagerly demanded.

Gazing into the young face, the Doctor saw a spark of empathy that had been missing from the other inhabitants he'd encountered. Was it enough to ignite a revolution? "Friends share secrets," he told his rapt audience. "Sometimes, they exchange gifts to show their allegiance to one another."

"Are you lonely when you have a friend?"

"Sometimes. Though if your friend isn't with you, knowing he exists can be enough."

"I wish I had a friend," Jorry wistfully sighed, stretching out on his pillow.

Entering some data on his tricorder, the Doctor absently encouraged, "Maybe you will someday."

***

Janeway took a sip of her coffee. Normally, she would've savored the rich flavor as it rolled over her taste buds on its way down her throat. For the first time since they'd be catapulted into the Delta Quadrant, she barely noticed what she was drinking. She was too worried about her away team.

It'd been over five hours since the shuttle landed. During that period, she'd spoken to the Doctor three times, each time there'd been an unusually long delay before he answered. When she tried to contact Paris, she still got the Doctor, who always had a plausible excuse why the lieutenant was unable to respond. She had no reason to believe the Doctor would lie to her. So, why couldn't she stop worrying?

She knew why. There was something about Nikoma Yalanich that she didn't trust. His tight smile and narrow eyes had made her instincts scream a warning. Unfortunately, it'd been a warning she'd been forced to ignore. All because she couldn't abandon a sick child. 

She would give them one more hour. If Paris hadn't reported by then, she would contact him. She didn't care what delicate negotiations she might interrupt, she would speak directly with her helmsman. In her opinion, she'd shown remarkable restraint already. They couldn't expect miracles.

***

Yalanich paced behind his desk. For once, he was oblivious to the view outside the large window that was the back wall of his office. How much longer could he stall this Captain Janeway? He'd heard the anger in her voice the last time she'd contacted them. Had he misjudged these Federationers? His forces must act quickly or all would be lost.

The heavy door opened, admitting Crillinozki.

His golden mane shaking with his fury, Yalanich demanded, "Well?"

"He has not yet broken, Your Greatness," the Kestado humbly revealed.

"This Janeway is becoming impatient and so am I."

Crillinozki threw back his shoulders, "Czalit does not fear a woman."

"Only a fool does not fear what can destroy him," Yalanich sneered. "We are running out of time. We must capture that ship before they become suspicious. Break this Paris, before he breaks us."

"As you command, Your Greatness."

***

Cold penetrated his uniform, bringing him back to a world who's only promise was pain. Paris tried not to shiver, knowing it would only increase his agony, but his body no longer listened to the orders his brain issued. A shudder made up of equal parts fear and cold rocked his body, reopening his wounds. Fresh blood flowed over the chilled skin, warming him.

When they came again, and he knew they would come, he would either die or break. He couldn't take much more. The fight had been too long and too hard. Tears filled his eyes. Janeway was the first person in a long time who'd trusted him. He didn't want to betray her. Somehow, he had to keep fighting. He knew his captain. No matter how many excuses the doctor was forced to use to explain Paris' silence, she would become suspicious. Then, Scarlet Collar would find out what kind of technology his prisoner was protecting. A smile curved his bloodied lips. He'd love to see the guards' faces when they learned about phasers, and saw what they could do.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Paris involuntarily tensed pain wracked muscles. The steps stopped outside his cell, as he'd known they would. Even his tormentors must realize they were running out of time. The door swung open. Bright light flooded the space blinding him. He didn't need to see to know Scarlet Collar had returned. A stench, not unlike the smell of death, clung to the officer like an Acturian needle bat clings to a rocky cliff.

"Are you ready to open your ship?" Scarlet Collar demanded.

Paris stared at his torturer without speaking. He was afraid to open his mouth. Afraid that he might agree to the demands.

Hands grabbed his ankles, pulling him out of the stinking cell. Rough stone scrapped against the torn flesh of his back. He barely noticed this new pain. They tried to stand him up, but his legs couldn't support his weight. He felt a small sense of satisfaction that they were forced to carry him. 

The walk was longer this time, but the room they finally entered was similar to the previous two, only the contents differed. Where the first had contained a table and the second a pole, this one had two chains hanging about ten feet from the floor. There were metal cuffs at the end of the chains. Along one wall, a strange looking machine filled the room with a loud throbbing noise. Green lights on the front panel washed them with a garish light.

Two guards lifted Paris until his head was almost level with the chains. Helping hands grabbed his arms and fastened the metal cuffs around his wrists. Then, they abruptly let go. He fell until the cuffs jerked him to a stop a couple feet above the floor. He bit his tongue to hold back the scream of agony that echoed in his head. A salty taste filled his mouth. Blood dripped down his arm from where the metal had cut into the tender flesh. His broken fingers throbbed in unison with the machine. Paris closed his eyes flowing with the waves of pain that swept the length of his body.

"There must be some wonderful things in that ship of yours to make you fight so," Scarlet Collar observed, a feral look on his face.

Paris reluctantly opened his eyes to stare at his tormentor. "Wonders you will never see," he defiantly croaked. 

"Big talk," Scarlet Collar sneered, "from a little man."

Stepping back, Scarlet Collar waved a hand at the guard standing behind Paris. He tensed waiting for what would come next. Ice cold water gushed from a hose poking through the ceiling. The force of the stream tore away the scabs on his back and legs. Warm blood flowed with the cold water, forming a pink puddle on the floor beneath his feet.

Eventually, the force diminished. When only drops dripped from the end of the hose, Paris threw back his head trying to dislodged the wet strands of hair that covered his eyes. He'd barely gotten his breath when he felt a paddle like object pressed against his chest. He only had a moment to puzzle over its purpose when he felt an electrical current course through his body. His muscles spasmed. Screams of agony tore from his throat. The smell of burning flesh filled the room, making him gag. 

The paddle was applied again and again to different locations on his body until hoarse whispers were his only response. In the few sane moments he had between treatments, he prayed for death.

***

"What else do friends . . ."

The Doctor looked up from his tricorder, puzzled by the abrupt end to his patient's now familiar refrain. Holding his face with shaking hands, Jorry withered in pain. Crossing to his medkit, the Doctor quickly extracted a hypo and inserted a vial. Reaching over, he pressured a small dose of medication into his young patient's neck.

The attack ceased almost immediately. Though drained by his ordeal, Jorry managed a weak nod, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," the Doctor appropriately replied, turning back to his research. "You were saying?"

His brow wrinkled with thought, Jorry organized the question that had been interrupted, "Is there anything else that friends do for each other?"

"Certainly," the Doctor absently replied.

"Like what?"

Now that he was being forced to analyze the association between friends, the Doctor wasn't sure he could. Having relationships hadn't been included in his original programming. Everything he knew, he'd had to learn from Voyager's crew. His thoughts turned to his first friend, his best friend, Kes. "A friend stands beside you in spite of your faults. When you hurt, they ease your pain. When you're afraid, they lend their support. When you're sad, they make you happy. And when you're lonely, they comfort you."

The boy sighed with longing, "Being a friend is a big responsibility."

"It is," the Doctor agreed, "but its worth any sacrifice."

His face grave, Jorry reached into the pocket of his tunic. When he pulled out his hand, he opened his fingers to show his companion his treasure - a Starfleet communicator.

The Doctor gasped, "How did you get that?"

"I took it from Father's desk."

"Why?"

"You're my friend," Jorry explained, his voice faltering on the unfamiliar word. "You said friends give each other gifts. I wanted to give you something. You must know my father has no intention of letting you go back to your ship."

"I suspected as much," the Doctor replied, wonderingly accepting the offering. "However, my captain will have something to say about that."

"She can't save you if you're dead."

Looking at the communicator in his hand, the Doctor asked, "Is Lieutenant Paris dead?'

"Probably. The minute he gave Kestado Crillinozki what he wanted, they would've killed him."

Closing his eyes, the Doctor wrapped his fist around the communicator until the points dug deep into his flesh. He thought he'd been saving Paris by complying with his captor's demands. Had he instead condemned the young lieutenant to death? Should he have insisted that they not be separated?

The heavy door swung open admitting Crillinozki and some of his guards. The scarlet collar on his long gray coat was wet and soiled. His manner more perturbed than on previous occasions. "You will come," he ordered, waving at the doctor.

"That won't be possible," the Doctor refused, concealing the communicator, he focused his attention on the readings his tricorder was displaying. "I'm in the middle of some very delicate tests."

"You come now!" Crillinozki snapped, slamming his hand against the door. Two guards immediately broke rank and grabbed the physician by the arms. Ignoring his protests, they half-carried, half-dragged him from the room.

Trying not to show his fear, the Doctor carefully studied their route. It was no different than the other times he'd been summoned to respond when Janeway was trying to contact them. The only deviation in this routine was within himself. Had they really killed Paris? He had to know.

With little regard for his physical welfare, he was shoved into the Cymalee's office. On past visits, he'd admired the massive ornate desk that stood in front of the tall window. The view of the magnificent city had mesmerized him. Now, all he felt was fear and anger.

Pressing the remaining communicator into his visitor's hand, Yalanich said, "You know what to say."

Aware of the guns trained on him, the Doctor pressed the communicator, "Captain?"

"What took you so long to answer this time, Doctor?" Janeway demanded, barely controlled fury audible in her voice.

"I'm still running some very delicate tests," the Doctor replied, his eyes on Yalanich. "Was there something you needed?'

"We haven't been able to contact Mr. Paris. If he's still in a meeting with the Cymalee, I want you to interrupt them."

"Actually, Captain," the Doctor defiantly said, "I haven't seen Mr. Paris since we landed. Why don't you give me half-an-hour to locate him?"

After a long hesitation, Janeway reluctantly agreed, "You have half-an-hour."

Tapping the badge to end the transmission, the Doctor handed it back to Yalanich, "I'll see Mr. Paris now."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Yalanich dismissed him, throwing the communicator on his desk. "He's in the middle of some very delicate negotiations."

A chill running up his spine, the Doctor persisted, "You heard what I told my captain. If I don't contact her, soon with a report on Lieutenant Paris' situation, you're going to have more problems than you know how to deal with."

"You will continue to tell her the lies you've been telling her," Yalanich ordered.

Squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, the Doctor shook his head, "I won't."

"Then you will die."

"Then so will your son, and along with him your position as Cymalee."

Yalanich slammed his fist down on the desk so hard the doctor thought it would crack.

"Don't threaten me, Healer."

"I'm not," the Doctor innocently returned. "I'm negotiating a settlement."

The thumb and middle finger of his left hand played with his golden beard as Yalanich slowly paced. "If I allow you to see your lieutenant, will you continue to lie to your captain?"

"Yes," the Doctor agreed, without hesitation. Thanks to the communicator hidden under his uniform, he knew he could promise anything.

"Will you open your spacecraft?"

"I can't. Only Lieutenant Paris knows the access code."

"Will you," Yalanich hesitated, "persuade him to give it to you?"

"I'll try," the Doctor easily lied.

With an imperious wave to his subordinate, Yalanich commanded, "Take him to the Lieutenant's cell."

"Cymalee?" Crillinozki protested.

"Your methods of persuasion have had no effect," Yalanich angrily pointed out. "We will try it my way now."

"Yes, Cymalee," the Kestado unhappily agreed.

As he followed the tall man from the room, the Doctor wasn't sure how he should feel. He would've done anything, promised anything, to see Tom Paris. Was that proper conduct for a Starfleet officer on a First Contact mission? Somehow, he didn't think so. But right now he didn't care.

With the communicator, he had a method to escape. The problem was, he couldn't use it. He was on the verge of diagnosing Jorry's ailment. As a doctor, he couldn't justify deserting his patient under any circumstance. If he beamed back to the ship, he would never be able to help the boy. Not even Voyager's sensors could distinguish one Czalit among many. He would just have to convince Paris that they needed to wait a little longer.

They descended a long flight of stairs into a cavernous tunnel. Wrinkling his nose against the stench, the Doctor shivered and reluctantly followed Crillinozki to a cell about halfway down the corridor. A piece of metal approximately a meter long was put into a hole and turned. The door swung partially open before becoming stuck. Hinges squealed in protest as they were forced open.

Already feeling soiled, the Doctor reluctantly kneeled and crawled through the narrow opening. Light filtered around him dimly illuminating the cell's occupant. He almost retched when his eyes focused on the bloody broken body of Tom Paris. Without a tricorder, he couldn't make a full diagnosis, but he didn't need a machine to tell him the lieutenant was badly injured. He couldn't wait another hour to be rescued. He couldn't wait five minutes.

Torn, the Doctor unhappily fingered the communicator. A slight tap and they would both be safely back on Voyager. Which patient did he abandon? Paris was severely traumatized, but Kes was sufficiently trained to stabilize him until the Doctor's return. Jorry, on the other hand, had no one else. If he left now, he'd be condemning the boy to a lifetime of excruciating pain.

"That's long enough, Healer," Crillinozki declared, bending so that his disapproving eyes rested on the doctor.

"I haven't gotten the shuttle's access code yet," the Doctor stalled.

"We both know you won't," the Czalit growled. "Now come on."

As soon as the officer withdrew, the Doctor pulled out the communicator and layed it on a broken hand. As he backed out, he activated the emergency recall. Before the sparkle of the transporter beam could engulf his young friend, he rushed out the door. He was relieved when the guard slammed it shut behind him without looking inside.

***

Janeway unhappily stared at the beautiful planet. What was happening to her away team? Why hadn't they been able to contact Paris? "Tuvok," she asked, "how much time's left before we reach the Doctor's deadline?"

"Twelve minutes, twenty-one seconds, Captain," the Vulcan counted down.

Sighing, Janeway leaned back in her command chair. She knew the next twelve minutes would feel more like twelve hours. She was tempted to beam down and find out for herself what was going on. Common sense - and the presence of her first officer - prevented her from doing so. It was a mercy mission. What could possibly go wrong?

"Captain," Harry Kim anxiously exclaimed, "sensors have picked up the signal for an emergency beam up."

Rising, Janeway ordered, "Transfer the coordinates to the transporter room."

"Who's badge is it?" Chakotay asked, turning in his seat to address the security chief.

Tuvok's fingers flashed across his console, "It's the doctor's."

"Transporter room," Janeway called, "do you have the doctor?"

"I . . ." A sound, as though someone was gagging echoed across the bridge. "I have . . . someone, Captain. It's badly hurt."

Janeway exchanged puzzled glances with Chakotay, "Beam him directly to sickbay."

"Beaming now, Captain," the relieved voice replied.

Bounding up the stairs, Janeway called, "I'll be in sickbay."

As fast as the turbolift was, it wasn't quick enough for Janeway. She fidgeted uneasily as the word 'it' kept replaying in her head. Why had the transporter technician used the neutral description for the person he'd beamed up? Had the Czalits found a way to injure the holographic doctor? If so, what had they done with Lieutenant Paris?

She found her answer the moment she entered sickbay. It was difficult to distinguish features through the dirt and blood that coated the bruised and broken body. A scrap of red fabric embedded in a deep cut across a bleeding shoulder told her it was Tom Paris.

Her elfin face twisted with anguish and confusion, Kes cried, "I don't know what to do for him, Captain."

Forcing a calm that she'd learned in command training, Janeway prompted, "What would the doctor order first?"

"A painkiller," Kes replied, without hesitation.

"Which one?"

"Lydradrazine," Kes responded immediately, pushing a vial of the medication into a hypospray. Panic returned to her face, "But I don't know how much."

Janeway's eyes strayed to the indicator that registered pain. It hovered near the top. "What's the highest dosage you can safely administer?"

"One unit."

"Give it to him."

The two women watched as the pain level dropped and other vital signs strengthened. "Now what?" Janeway pressed.

"I need to close the worst of these cuts to stop the bleeding and start repairing the internal injuries," Kes decided.

"What can I do to help?"

Kes handed her a laser, "Cut away what's left of his uniform."

Her command mask firmly in place, Janeway took the laser. She couldn't allow her own revulsion and fear to show. She couldn't do anything that might undermine Kes' returning confidence. The young Ocampa was the only one who stood between Tom Paris and death.

The odor of burned flesh filled her nostrils as Janeway bent to her task. What kind of people could torture another? Certainly not one that was civilized. She'd made a mistake sending an away team to the surface of Czalit. It was unfortunate that Paris had to pay the price. And the doctor? Was he also suffering due to his Captain's poor judgment?

The doors swished open. Harry Kim stood hesitantly in the doorway. Shock at what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

"Harry, we could use your help," Kes called, waving the ensign inside.

"Don't."

The whisper drew Janeway's attention to Paris' battered face. She was shocked to see a blue eye staring intently into her own.

"Don't," Paris pleaded, "let . . . him . . . see me . . . like . . . this."

Tears welling up in her eyes, Janeway roughly ordered, "Computer, close and lock sickbay doors."

"Hey," Harry protested, jumping back as the doors snapped shut.

"Thank . . . you."

Janeway wasn't sure she'd done the injured man a service. Now, more than ever, he'd need the support of his friends. Repairing his physical injuries would only be the beginning. His relationship with Paris made Kim uniquely qualified to be a counselor. Only by seeing what had happened, could Harry realize what he would be up against.

Even knowing this, Janeway didn't release the doors. She had to respect Tom's request. If their positions were reversed, she would feel the same need to protect the young officer.

Her hands trembled as she returned to her task. Several times as she pulled the encrusted material away from an open wound, she heard a soft moan. Sometimes, she wasn't sure if the sound had emanated from her throat or Paris'. Each cut screamed at her, telling its own story of the indignities Paris had endured.

By the time she was finished, she was shaking so hard she could barely hold the laser. With the full extent of the injuries revealed, she was glad she'd locked Harry out. Her own imagination would give her nightmares for days.

Laying the laser on a tray, she crossed to where Kes was studying the diagnostics. "What now?" she asked, her voice cracking with the strain.

Pointing to one of the readings, Kes said, "His lungs are filling with fluids."

"Pneumonia," Janeway interpreted. "Do you know what antibiotic to use?"

"My guess would be rucollician," Kes hesitantly replied. "I wish the doctor were here. He'd know exactly what to prescribe." 

Janeway didn't voice her agreement. It was ironic; she never thought she would actually miss the acerbic physician. Usually, she longed for the days when she could turn him off when he became particularly annoying. Today wasn't one of those days.

***

The Doctor returned to the Cymalee's office. Without a word, he reached for the remaining communicator. The sound of weapons being primed echoed around the room. Though unfamiliar with the primitive guns, he knew the action was intended to intimidate him. It only served to fuel his anger. The one factor that held him in check was his desire to help Jorry. By staying behind, he had risked Tom Paris' life. Though capable, Kes wasn't a doctor. He was determined that his sacrifice would not be in vain.

Tapping the communicator, he called, "Doctor to Voyager."

"Chakotay here," a deep voice answered, "is everything all right, Doctor?"

"Everything's fine, Commander," he answered, hoping the first officer would go along with his lie. "Lieutenant Paris has promised to contact you as soon as they take a break in their negotiations."

"Understood," Chakotay said.

Uncomfortable under the Cymalee's gaze, the Doctor asked, "Where's the Captain?"

"She had some pressing duties."

A lump formed in the Doctor's throat. He knew what was claiming Janeway's attention. Had he made the right decision? "I have pressing duties of my own, Commander," he said, shaking off his guilt. "I need to return to my patient. If all goes well, my diagnosis should be completed within the hour."

"Understood, Doctor," Chakotay calmly repeated, "Voyager out."

Placing the communicator on the desk, the Doctor turned. Nonchalantly pushing the weapons aside, he strolled from the room. He didn't need an escort to the Cymachee's quarters. He could find his way without assistance. Still, knowing the mentality of these people, he wasn't surprised to hear feet scurrying to catch up with him.

When the door to the boy's chambers opened, Jorry's face initially showed his happiness. It was almost instantly followed by fear. Waiting until they were alone, he asked, "Why didn't you escape?"

"I couldn't leave without helping you. I'm a doctor. I took an oath."

His eyes filling with tears, Jorry choked, "You're risking your life for me. Does that mean I'm your friend?"

"I'm a doctor. We're trained to value our patients lives over our own." Though he was speaking the truth, the Doctor knew he wasn't speaking the whole truth. The disappointment on the young boy's face punctured his resolve to keep their relationship professional. "It wasn't just duty that made me stay," he quietly admitted. "I couldn't desert a friend."

A smile, the first the Doctor had seen on this planet, brightened the pale face. Within seconds, it disappeared as pain twisted the delicate features into a grotesque mask. Grabbing a hypospray, the Doctor quickly pressured medication into a corded neck muscle. Relief was almost instantaneous. Eyes gazed up at him in gratitude.

"Thank you," Jorry whispered. "I'm glad you didn't go away."

"So am I." Embarrassed by his confession, the Doctor turned his attention to his tricorder. "That was your last attack." 

"I'm not going to die?"

"No."

Blinking rapidly to fight back tears of joy, Jorry gasped, "You've found a cure."

"Not exactly, I've found the cause."

"What does that mean?"

"It means there is no known cure." The disappointment on the youthful face tore at the Doctor's heart, "But there is a treatment. The pain is caused by a diseased nerve in your jaw."

"Can you fix it?"

"No, not with the equipment I have here. However, I can make it stop hurting you."

Puzzlement audible in his voice, Jorry asked, "Isn't that the same as fixing it?"

"Not in this case." Taking a laser scalpel from his medkit, the Doctor simplified, "What I want to do is cut the nerve. That way, it can't hurt you anymore. Since it has no feeling, it'll be numb, so it won't be able to support the weight of your skin. There will be a noticeable sag around your left eye and cheek. I'm sorry, that's the best I can do. If I had the equipment we have on Voyager, I could build you an artificial nerve."

"I'm not going to die and there won't be any more pain. That's already more than I hoped for."

Knowing he had little time, the Doctor quickly set to work. There wasn't much left of the hour he had asked the Commander to give him.

***

Sweat dripped into Janeway's eyes. She swiped at it with the sleeve of her uniform, little knowing or caring that a streak of blood had been left in its wake. While Kes concentrated on the internal injuries to Tom's kidneys and lungs, Janeway was sterilizing and repairing the open wounds scattered across his back, legs and buttocks. It was a daunting task. In the young man's depleted condition, she didn't dare hurry and miss any foreign substance. He didn't have the strength to fight an infection. Being the captain, she could delegate the chore to someone else. Guilt wouldn't allow her to do so. Every time she assigned a mission, she knew there was a chance that the away team might not return. She was prepared for that. She had not, could not have prepared herself for this. How could a mercy mission have gone so wrong?

Though she was being as gentle as possible, Janeway was aware that as the regenerator rebuilt neural pathways and stretched a protective layer of skin across the gaping wounds, she was inflicting more pain on the traumatized soul beneath her hand. Yet, Paris hadn't uttered a sound. How she longed to hear him crack a joke. At least then she would know only his physical body had been damaged.

As she took a short break, her eyes sought the diagnostic panel. Little of it was comprehensible to her. Only the pain indicator was familiar. She'd watched it fluctuate as she performed her ministrations. Each time it would rise, she'd have to force herself to ignore it and continue.

"Chakotay to Janeway."

Hope making her breathless, Janeway said, "Go ahead, Commander."

"We just beamed the Doctor on board."

"Is he hurt?"

"According to the transporter technician, he's fine. He's on his way to sickbay now."

"Thank God," Janeway sighed, exchanging a look of relief with Kes. "What is the status of the shuttle?"

Tuvok calmly reported, "Sensors show numerous life form readings around the craft, but none inside, Captain."

"Beam a team directly into the shuttle and have them fly it back to Voyager," Janeway ordered. "If they encounter any Czalits, they're not to take any chances. Stun on sight."

Surprise was audible in Chakotay's voice when he replied, "Aye, Captain."

The doors vibrated - violently.

Janeway anxiously remebered her earlier order and quickly countermanded it, "Computer, unlock sickbay doors."

Despite the scowl that twisted the doctor's face, Janeway was never so happy to see anyone in her life. As he crossed to confer with Kes, she smiled gently at the wistful face peeking through the open doors. "Computer," she reluctantly called, "close and lock sickbay doors."

Resting a trembling hand on the physician's arm, Kes asked, "Did they hurt you, Doctor?"

"No," he impatiently snapped, his attention focused on the information flying across the computer screen. When he finally finished scanning the report, he sighed with relief, "You did a good job, Kes."

Tears filled the expressive eyes, "I did what I thought you'd want me to do. But, I wasn't sure how to treat his hands."

The Doctor crossed to the biobed and inspected the crushed fingers. Shaking his head, he decided, "Considering Mr. Paris' condition, it would be safer to amputate . . ."

"No!" The anguished cry halted the doctor's recommendation.

Obviously surprised that his patient was conscious, the Doctor soothed, "I can replace your fingers with artificial limbs. They'll be almost as good as real ones."

"Pilot," Paris gasped, ignoring the pain of his bruised and bleeding lips, "almost . . . not good . . . enough."

"I understand your concern," the Doctor said, his voice gruff. "If it were your only injury, I could try to save them. However, your other wounds make that impossible. You don't have the strength to survive a lengthy operation. You'd be risking your life for nothing."

"My life . . . to risk." 

"Tom," Janeway gently laid her hand on the side of Paris' head, "you can still be a pilot with artificial fingers."

"Not as . . . good."

"Maybe not as quick," Janeway conceded. "But there's more to being a good pilot than agile fingers. You'll still have what it takes up here," she softly tapped his temple.

"Please . . ."

Janeway's gaze was caught by a pleading blue eye. She understood the fear she read in its depths. Tears blurred her vision. She would feel exactly the same if someone tried to take away her ability to command. "Do as he asks, Doctor.'

"Captain, I can understand how Lieutenant Paris might not choose to recognize the consequences of his request, but you've seen the diagnostics. You know the risk."

"I feel it's acceptable."

"Well, I can't agree. It's too dangerous."

"More dangerous than an away mission?'

"There are unknown variables involved in an away mission. My instruments tell me there is a 95% chance that the lieutenant will die if I attempt to save his hands."

Janeway flinched. She hadn't expected the treatment to be such a gamble. The information made her pause. Her hand still rested comfortably on Paris' head. She could feel the blood and sweat that matted the fine hair. A soft, "Please," reached her ears. Straightening her shoulders, she said, "Doctor, if Lieutenant Paris wasn't willing to trust in that five percent, he wouldn't be out here.'

"I want it on the record that I oppose your decision, Captain," the Doctor indignantly demanded.

"Computer," Janeway calmly replied, "log the Doctor's protest concerning Lieutenant Paris' treatment. Flag for cross-reference to the medical reports."

"So logged," the computer voice dispassionately agreed.

Returning her attention to the irate physician, Janeway asked, "Satisfied, Doctor?"

"I just hope you don't have occasion to regret your decision, Captain."

As she handed the regenerator to Kes, Janeway silently concurred.

***

"What do you mean he's missing?"

Though he flinched at his superior's angry growl, Crillinozki stood his ground, "The Federation Lieutenant has disappeared from his cell. Search parties have been dispatched throughout the palace, without success. They are now covering the town."

"How does a man escape a locked cell?"

"I do not know, Your Greatness." This time, Crillinozki didn't try to hide his fear. He knew what would happen to him if the Federationer wasn't found. His career had already been placed in jeopardy by the man's stubbornness. Now, he could forfeit his life.

Yalanich frowned. Absently finger combing his beard, he asked, "Don't you think it's rather coincidental that he should disappear after the Healer's visit?"

"Even if the Healer gave him the key to the cell, the Lieutenant was in no condition to use it. We carried him back only minutes before.'

A gleam in his eyes, Yalanich opened the top drawer of his desk and rummaged around inside. Straightening, he announced, "One of those communication devices they wore is missing."

"I have seen no one in your office, Your Greatness," Crillinozki nervously protested, "except the Cymachee." Dark eyes bore into the Kestado, making him feel like an insect on the end of a pin.

Slamming his desk drawer shut, Yalanich said, "Let's pay my son a visit. It's time to see if the Healer is making any progress."

Crillinozki unhappily followed his superior. No matter what they discovered, he knew it would look bad for him. Even while he raged against it, he'd admired the Federationer's courage. He'd never seen anyone resist with such strength of will. At first, the man's defiance had made him angry. But, when they'd thrown him back in his cell after the burning torture, he'd felt ashamed. It was obvious these Federationers knew nothing about forcing a mind to your will. Could a society exist without torturing its people?

A soft growl pulled Crillinozki from his thoughts. Yalanich stood in front of the Cymachee's door impatiently waiting for him to open it. Paling, he hurried to comply. Pushing against the heavy door, he stood back to let his superior precede him.

"Where is the Healer?" Yalanich immediately demanded, addressing his son.

There was a look on the Cymachee's face that Crillinozki had never seen before. There was no sign of the fear that had always been apparent on the boy's face whenever his father addressed him. He envied the boy's courage.

Looking up from the toy soldiers he'd been arranging, Jorry calmly explained, "Some guards took him away. I assumed they were taking him to you, Father."

"What guards?"

"I wasn't paying attention.'

"I'm missing one of these," Yalanich opened his hand and showed his son the communication device, "have you seen it?"

"No."

"Crillinozki informs me you were in my office."

Opening his arms wide, Jorry offered, "You can search my rooms if you don't believe me."

Yalanich studied the innocent face of his son before turning to his Kestado, "It looks like you have two men to find, now.'

Crillinozki unhappily nodded and backed to the door, "I'll get right on it."

"By the way, Father," Jorry quietly said, keeping his impatient father from following, "the Healer cured me. I'm no longer in pain."

"You're not going to die?" Yalanich eagerly pressed for the only information that was important to him.

"I'm not going to die," Jorry confirmed.

His heart lighter upon hearing the news, Crillinozki closed the door behind him. He had a feeling that the government would change when the Cymachee ruled. There was something in the boy's eyes that promised a better future. It might be too late for him, but it might not be for his sons.

***

The Doctor closed his eyes. Even knowing he would only irritate them more, he rubbed them. As a hologram, he never expected that he would experience fatigue. Though Kes and the Captain had both fallen asleep on empty biobeds hours ago, he'd continued to work. He knew in his heart that it was exhaustion of the mind that he was feeling, rather than of the body. Guilt gnawed at him like a dog with a bone. Could he have used his position to prevent the repeated acts of torture? Should he have refused to treat Jorry until Paris' safety had been negotiated? Recriminations raced through his thoughts making it difficult for him to concentrate on the mangled fingers beneath the regenerator.

Pausing to relax, he studied his patient's diagnostics. Every level, except the one registering pain, was far too low in his opinion. Still, nothing had drastically changed since he'd started the procedure. He sighed with relief that his worse fears hadn't materialized.

It was his own guilt that had made him protest so vigorously. The hour he'd given Jorry could've cost Paris his life. The young man's own stubbornness and determination had been as much a factor in his limited recovery as the procedures Kes had instigated.

Even as he flagellated himself over his own performance, the Doctor felt pride in his young assistant's achievements. Faced with injuries far more severe than she had previously been exposed to, she'd performed flawlessly. Her accomplishment was the only salve to the pain of his guilt. 

"How's it coming, Doctor?"

The soft voice drew the Doctor's gaze to the woman who occupied the next bed. Sometimes it amazed him that one so young could captain such a vessel as Voyager, under the extreme circumstances they had found in the Delta Quadrant. She had to make more life and death decisions than he did himself yet she never seemed to second guess herself. Switching the regenerator back on, he said, "I'm almost done."

"Will he be all right?"

A nod accompanied the Doctor's cautious affirmation, "I think so."

A whispery sigh escaped Janeway's lips. Eyes, glassy with tears focused on the physician with gratitude.

The first alarm made the Doctor jump in surprise. The second had him frantically turning off the regenerator.

"What's going on?" Janeway demanded, swinging her legs off the biobed.

"He's gone into shock. His heart has shut down."

"Do you want the neural stimulator, Doctor?" Kes calmly asked, wide awake and heading for the equipment locker.

"No," the Doctor shook his head. "From the burn patterns on his skin and the electrolyte imbalance, I would say some kind of electrical stimulation was an integral part of his torture. His mind may conceive the stimulator as another form of torture."

"Then what can you do?"

"Get me a laser scalpel," the Doctor ordered, quickly waving his hands under the sterilizer.

A puzzled frown flashed across Kes' face as she obeyed the order.

Accepting the scalpel, the Doctor crossed to his patient. Folding back the light blanket that covered Paris, he used the laser to cut the blue gown from around the area covering the left side of the chest. Then, taking a deep breath, he cut an incision just below the nipple. Ignoring the blood, he stuck his hand into the hole he'd made.

"Doctor,' a horrified Kes protested, "what are you doing?"

"Massaging the heart. It was a technique used centuries ago before the invention of artificial stimulators."

Her pale face reflecting her revulsion at the procedure, Janeway asked, "Isn't there some other way to restart his heart?"

"If you don't mind having a vegetable for a helmsman,' the Doctor brutally replied.

"What do you mean?"

"The long hours required to repair his injuries have caused his body to go into shock. I could jump start his heart, but it would basically be using a method similar to what they used to torture him. In his present condition, he may perceive he's back on Czalit, back in the torture chamber. I may be able to keep his body alive, but the trauma could make him escape into his mind. This is why I didn't want to try to save his hands in the first place."

Janeway looked like she'd been struck a vicious blow.

"It's working, Doctor," Kes encouraged studying the readings.

Pulling his hand from the gaping wound, the Doctor asked, "How does it look now?"

"Heart rate is increasing," Kes replied, her eyes fastened on the monitor. Tense minutes ticked slowly by before she excitedly exclaimed, "Heart rate is back to normal."

"Captain," the Doctor inquired, "could you hand me the regenerator?"

Janeway picked up the requested instrument and started to hand it to the physician. She froze when her gaze encountered the blood dripping from the hand reaching toward her.

Though sickened by the gruesome sight himself, the Doctor didn't have time to allay her guilt, much less his own. Blood transferred from his fingers to hers as he reached to take the regenerator. Expertly readjusting the instrument, he laid it at the edge of the open wound. Briefly, he wondered if he should apologize. It seemed like a superfluous gesture to him, but it might be something the Captain would expect from one of her subordinates, "I'm sorry, Captain."

"For what, Doctor?" Janeway asked, wiping her hand on a cloth Kes had handed her.

"For that," the Doctor said, nodding at the stained material.

"I'm the one who should apologize," Janeway sadly admitted. "You wouldn't have blood on your hands if I hadn't stopped you from amputating."

"Next time, maybe you'll listen to your doctor?"

"You can count on it." 

"What is it they say, something good comes from everything."

Her gaze resting on the bruised face of her helmsman, Janeway shook her head, "Not everything, Doctor. Not everything."

The Doctor's pride over his small success dimmed as he contemplated the road ahead. There were still no guarantees that Paris' fingers would regain their agility. Time and therapy would be the judge and jury. The physical wounds were only half the battle. What had the experience done to his mind? Would this Lieutenant Paris resemble the man who had piloted the shuttle to Czalit with such high expectations, or was that man gone forever?

***

Footsteps. Though quieter than the other times, Paris wasn't fooled. They stopped near his head. He cringed. Hating himself for his cowardly reaction, he squeezed his eyes closed, refusing to open them.

"Tom?"

No! Kes couldn't be here. He couldn't let the gentle Ocampa see him like this. He tried to pull away, to hide, but straps stretched across his wrists, chest and ankles prevent him from retreating. Panic gripped him. What new torture did they plan for him now? He couldn't take any more. A hoarse scream rose from his raw throat as he desperately fought the bonds that trapped him. Kes' soft voice pleaded with him to stop. He wasn't fooled.

The voice rose in desperation, "Doctor!"

Paris laughed. Now he knew he was dreaming. In his reality, the Doctor had disappeared. No matter how hard or how long he prayed, the Doctor never came to save him. 

Something was placed against his neck. He tried to pull away. A hand clamped down on his forehead easily holding him in place. The muted hiss that whispered next to his throat filled him with a new fear. A tear escaped, as against his will, his muscles relaxed. He listened without caring to the two voices so familiar to him. His heart ached. How he wished they were real.

"Doctor, the chest wound is bleeding again."

"Get the regenerator." The physician sighed. "If this keeps up he's never going to heal."

"At least his hands didn't suffer any injuries this time," Kes noted, gently returning her patient's left hand to the healing solution.

They sounded so much like the real Kes and the real doctor, Paris found himself relaxing. Gritting his teeth, he raged against this new form of torture. They weren't satisfied with attacking his body, now they were attacking his mind.

"Doctor," concern tinged Kes' voice, "Tom's adrenalin level is rising again."

Shaking his head, the Doctor reached for a hypospray. Raising it to eye level, he adjusted the medication. Pressing the instrument to his patient's neck, he said, "Lieutenant, you must stop fighting.'

"Never," Paris stubbornly vowed.

***

Janeway stared at the blue/green planet looming outside her ready room window. A fire burned inside her, fueled by the torture of her helmsman. She had a decision to make. Should she punish the Czalits for what they'd done to Paris? Or, did the Prime Directive protect them from her wrath? She would have to schedule a meeting with Tuvok and Chakotay to solicit their advice. After what she'd seen, she knew she couldn't be objective.

Even a shower and a few hours of restless sleep hadn't dissipated her anger. The fingers of her left hand absently rubbed her right hand. It still felt sticky, although there was no visible trace of the blood that had stained it. 

"Captain?'

Janeway tensed, before replying, "Go ahead, Doctor."

"May I speak with you?"

"I'm on my way." Janeway started to rise.

"Actually," the Doctor hesitantly requested, "would it be all right if I came to you?"

"Of course," Janeway agreed, returning to her seat, "I'm in my ready room."

While she waited, Janeway concentrated on controlling her emotions. This was the first time the doctor had left a patient to consult her. Did it mean that Tom Paris would be all right or was he dead? A death that was her responsibility alone.

The doors swished open, admitting the balding physician. His face was unreadable, adding to Janeway's growing fears, "What can I do for you, Doctor?"

Staring sightlessly at the planet, the Doctor said, "I have been programmed with the combined knowledge of the best medical minds in the Federation . . ."

"I know all that," Janeway impatiently interrupted. "Has something happened to Lieutenant Paris?"

"He's still in stable condition, if that's what you're inquiring."

Janeway closed her eyes for a second in supplication. Opening them, she pressed, "Then what's the problem?"

"Every time the Lieutenant regains consciousness, he thinks he's still on that planet, still in their prison waiting to be tortured. He fights the restraints, so hard he re-injures himself."

"Can you keep him sedated?"

"Whatever they did has totally disrupted his neural pathways. He fights every sedative I've administered."

"Damned if we do and damned if we don't," Janeway bitterly muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

A sad smile on her lips, Janeway explained, "It's an old Earth saying that means that no matter what we do . . ."

"We're damned," the Doctor finished.

"Precisely," Janeway nodded. Rising, she crossed to the window. For once, the view gave her no peace. Turning her back on the accursed world, she said, "You can't keep him sedated, and you can't let him regain consciousness. Are there any other alternatives?"

"That is what I wanted to talk to you about, Captain. Thanks to Starling's 29th century enhanced computer wizardry, I know something about physical pain. However, I know nothing about emotional pain."

Noting the anguish in the gentle eyes, Janeway whispered, "I wouldn't be so sure about that, Doctor."

"I believe it's the pain killers that are causing Lieutenant Paris' disorientation," the Doctor continued, as though she hadn't spoken. "If I take him off the drugs, it's possible he'll realize he's in Voyager's sickbay. However, without the medication he'll be in a great deal of pain."

Janeway flinched, remembering the readings on the monitor when Paris had been beamed aboard. It wasn't fair that he should suffer again.

"You see my dilemma," the Doctor, anxiously appealed. "Is it better to stop medicating him, which will give him physical pain? Or, continue the treatment, which has him trapped in a mental agony?"

Wishing there was a third option, Janeway finally recommended, "Take him off the medication."

"May I ask how you arrived at that decision?" the Doctor asked, his face showing genuine interest.

"If Tom tries to escape that prison he thinks he's in, he can only do so in his mind," Janeway unhappily pointed out. "We may never be able to reach him there. Fear is more difficult to conquer than physical pain."

"Mmmmm." The Doctor shook his head in puzzlement, "I admit, I hadn't expected that response."

"Human needs and desires are very difficult to predict."

"Then how do you know this is what Mr. Paris would want?"

"Because it's what I would want."

"I don't understand how that automatically makes you believe that Mr. Paris would agree."

"I don't."

"Then . . ."

"It's a guess," Janeway conceded. "Until you can talk to Tom, that's all we can go on."

The Doctor shook his head, "That's not very scientific."

Staring out at the planet that had caused their dilemma, Janeway struck her fist against the window. Pain, only a fraction of what Paris would soon be feeling, tingled along her fingers, across her palm to her wrist. "I'm not feeling very scientific right now," she admitted.

***

Crillinozki braced himself. His hand reached out to push the door open, but stopped halfway to its destination. He mentally reviewed the last few hours, confirming that he had done all that was necessary to put his life in order. He'd sent his wife and children to the country to visit her parents. He didn't want them caught in the fallout of the Cymalee's wrath. He just wished he'd had time to say good-bye.

Realizing he could stall no longer, he pushed through the door. His hands were shaking. It embarrassed him, but he could do nothing to stop them. It really didn't matter any longer if his fear showed. Nothing could save him.

Cradled in the large, ornate chair behind his desk, Yalanich demanded, "Did you find them?"

"No, Your Greatness." Taking a deep breath, Crillinozki revealed, "The Federationers ship . . ."

"Don't tell me it's disappeared as well," Yalanich roared.

All the confidence and cruelty that had been so evident in his dealings with Paris deserted Crillinozki, "It flew away."

"I want every man who was guarding that ship shot."

"Your Greatness," Crillinozki protested, "no one got by my guards."

Yalanich fluttered his fingers through the space that separated them, "Are you trying to tell me it flew off on its own?"

"Apparently, yes."

"You actually think I believe that," Yalanich sneered.

"I tell you nothing but the truth," Crillinozki proudly defended himself. "That's all I ask you to believe."

Rising from his chair, Yalanich rounded the desk to stand in front of his sub-ordinate, "You are a pathetic excuse for a man. Go from here. I can't stand the sight of you."

"Yes, Your Greatness," trembling, Crillinozki backed away. When he returned to the hallway, he wasn't surprised to find some of his own guards waiting for him. He yearned to fight back as Paris had, but he would do nothing that could endanger his family. His hands meekly behind his back, he allowed them to take his arms and lead him away.

***

Paris stared up at the ceiling, rejoicing in his freedom. The pain that caused weary muscles to spasm was a small price to pay for the peace of mind his drug free system offered. The doctor had assured him that the pain would continue to diminish until it eventually disappeared. It had been so much a part of his life for so long he had difficulty believing the promise. Still, a pain filled reality was preferable to returning to a Czalit torture chamber. Even if it was only in his mind.

"Tom?"

Gritting his teeth to fortify him against the pain the smallest movement engendered, Paris slowly opened his eyes. He was both pleased and saddened to see B'Elanna Torres bending over him. He'd hoped to be more in control by the time visitors were allowed. The jaw that had been fractured by a rifle butt, still ached every time he talked. "Hi," he whispered.

Her gaze furtively scanning the office where the Doctor and Kes studied reports on the computer screen she'd just repaired, B'Elanna admitted, "I'm not suppose to be here." A nervous hesitation made her stutter, "I-I just had t-to see if y-you were all r-right."

Puzzled by the young woman's unusual speech pattern, Paris said, "I will be."

"Good." B'Elanna self-consciously smiled, "I'm glad. They wouldn't let anyone see you. I-I was a-afraid . . ."

"That will be all, Lieutenant," the Doctor ordered, exploding from his office. "I haven't upgraded my patient's condition to allow visitors."

Though he was exhausted by the short conversation, Paris was disappointed by the interruption. This was the first time since the Vidians had split the half-human, half-Klingon into two separate entities that he'd seen B'Elanna Torres so vulnerable. He'd love to know what she feared. The Doctor couldn't have had worse timing.

"When Lieutenant Paris is sufficiently recovered to have visitors, you will be informed."

B'Elanna unhappily backed away, nodding her understanding, "Yes, Doctor."

"Please convey these restrictions to anyone else who might attempt an unauthorized visit, most notably, Ensign Kim."

"Yes, Doctor," an unusually meek Torres agreed.

If it wouldn't have hurt so much, Paris would've smiled at the intimidated engineer. Partially in reassurance, but mostly from pure enjoyment. It wasn't often B'Elanna Torres found herself on the receiving end of a tart-tongued tirade. She was usually issuing it not receiving it.

Once she was banished from his sickbay, the Doctor huffily returned to his office. For a few moments, Paris had forgotten his pain. He would be forever grateful to B'Elanna for the brief respite.

***

Crillinozki huddled in the cold cell, listening to the footsteps and praying they would pass him by. When they did, he slumped in relief, only to realize it might have been better if they had taken him. The waiting and wondering were almost as bad as the torture itself. Was this how it had been for Lieutenant Paris? 

***

Janeway stared out the window. She was glad that the conference room faced away from the planet. She had begun to loath the very sight of it. The starts glittering on a backdrop of black velvet filled her with peace. She almost felt guilty basking in the feeling while Tom Paris still suffered in sickbay. "Well, Gentlemen," she faced her senior officers, "you've read the Doctor's report. What is your recommendation?"

"There is little we can do," Tuvok quickly replied, "without violating the Prime Directive."

"You're saying I shouldn't punish those people for torturing one of my officers?"

"I don't see any other alternative."

His dark eyes burning with a vengeful fire, Chakotay disagreed, "We can't let them get away with it."

"Commander, the Prime Directive," Tuvok reminded, "specifically prohibits retaliation."

"Technologically speaking," Chakotay said, "these people are like children. If you let a child get away with something once, they'll do it again."

"You propose we teach these 'children' a lesson?"

"Yes. It'll be for their own good."

Tuvok raised an eyebrow, "Your proposal is meant to benefit the Czalits? Not for revenge?"

"I admit that it would give me satisfaction to see fear on Yalanich's face," Chakotay acknowledged, "But, my recommendation is for their benefit. What if they do something like this to a culture less tolerant than our own? Their entire population could be destroyed or enslaved."

Pulling her chair back and sitting down, Janeway nodded, "I agree. Putting the fear of God into Yalanich could be exactly what that society needs."

"I fail to see how invoking a deity that the Czalits probably don't believe in could benefit their society," Tuvok quietly reprimanded.

"Maybe it won't help," Chakotay relinquished, "but it can't hurt."

"That is where you are wrong, Commander. There are a number of examples throughout history where the violation of the Prime Directive has been disastrous," Tuvok said. "If you'd like I can list them."

Janeway held up her hand, "Please don't. I've already made my decision. The only question that remains is what form will this retaliatory gesture take?"

"I think a small demonstration of our weapons capabilities should be sufficient," Chakotay suggested.

"Agreed."

Though his face was expressionless as ever, Tuvok's voice conveyed his disapproval, "Captain, I would like my objection to this course of action on the record."

"So noted," Janeway sadly acknowledged.

She didn't like this trend of disregarding the recommendations of her senior officers. First it had been the Doctor, now Tuvok. If only, she reflected, someone had persuaded her not to send an away team to Czalit in the first place, she wouldn't be forced to challenge them now.

 

***

A shiver shook his body. The movement intensified his pain pinpointing every bruise and broken bone. Crillinozki yearned for the warmth of his long gray coat. He remembered the day he'd received it. How proud he'd been of the brilliant scarlet collar. It'd been a symbol of his power. A power that was his no more.

***

As he walked slowly across sickbay, Paris steeled himself, waiting for the pain to return. Though the Doctor had assured him that his agony would only be a memory now, he knew it would influence his actions long after the physical wounds had healed.

"I think that's enough exercise, Mr. Paris," the Doctor ordered, crossing to lead his patient to a biobed.

'But I feel fine, Doc," Paris protested, dismayed by his weakness, but unwilling to admit to it. "Why can't I return to my quarters?"

"First, I can't monitor your neural pathways from that distance. Second, with your hands encased in those protective membranes, you can't even scratch an itch. How do you expect to look after yourself?"

"You had to put it that way didn't you, Doc?" Paris wailed, twitching his nose and twisting his shoulders.

"Where is it this time?" the Doctor disgustedly demanded.

"Just below my left shoulder blade."

The index finger of his right hand delicately extended, the Doctor scratched the indicated area.

"A little more to the right."

His eyes lifted to an unseen deity, the Doctor complied.

"A little higher." A soft sigh of relief escaped Paris' lips when the Doctor's ministrations finally removed the irritation. "You've got it."

"Now you know why you can't return to your quarters," the Doctor triumphantly declared, settling his patient on a biobed.

"I could've found some protrusion that would've worked as well as your finger."

Dropping his hand, the Doctor stiffly walked away, "In the future, please do so."

Paris wanted to kick himself. He hadn't meant to hurt the Doctor's feelings. He'd only wanted to win his freedom. He desperately needed his life to return to normal. Or, at least as normal as a man with no hands could be. Maybe, with the routine of shipboard life he wouldn't keep reliving those hours when Scarlet Collar had made him cry and scream and defecate. He'd dishonored his family and his uniform. Even if his hands healed sufficiently to allow him to return to the helm, would his mind? He'd done things he hadn't put in his report to the Captain. Would she, would anyone, understand why he'd broken. In the end, there was only one reason he hadn't opened the shuttle - he was physically incapable of doing so. He wasn't the hero everyone said he was. He was the coward everyone thought he'd been when he first boarded Voyager.

The doors to sickbay swished opened, admitting the Captain. Paris felt at a disadvantage meeting with her while sitting on his biobed, but it would be even more embarrassing if he fell flat on his face on the floor.

"Mr. Paris," Janeway happily greeted him. "You're looking better. There's even some color in your cheeks."

Paris blushed, intensifying the "color." "Thank you, Captain."

"I'd like to talk to you about your report if you feel up to it."

Paris mentally cringed. How did she know he'd lied? Was it because he'd done so in the past? When she gave him the commission, he'd thought it meant she trusted him. It hurt, more than anything he'd gone through to realize she didn't - and that she had reason not to.

"I'm leading an away team to Czalit," Janeway continued, unaware of her sub-ordinate's inner torment. "I was wondering if there was any advice you or the Doctor might have for dealing with the Cymalee?"

"Won't you be violating the Prime Directive?" a shocked Paris demanded.

A sly smile curved Janeway's lips, "Only bending it a little."

"Why would you do that?"

"I can't let them get away with torturing a member of my crew. It seems to me Yalanich could use a lesson in manners."

Paris stared at his useless hands, "Please don't go down there, Captain," he softly pleaded.

"Don't worry," Janeway put a comforting hand on his arm, "I won't be alone and we'll be well armed."

"You can't trust these people. Don't take the chance. I'm not worth it."

Janeway frowned, "Tom . . ."

"I lied, Captain," Paris unhappily revealed. "I didn't tell you everything in my report."

"What did you leave out?" Janeway asked, folding her arms across her chest.

"They broke me, Captain." Paris closed his eyes so he wouldn't see the disappointment on her face. "After that shock treatment, I was ready to open the shuttle. The only reason I didn't was because I wasn't physically able to."

Her brown eyes glistening with tears, Janeway swallowed around the lump in her throat, "Tom, I'm sure there were a number of times during your captivity when you were ready to give in to their demands. The important thing is that you didn't . . ."

"Captain . . ."

Putting her hand up to stop him, Janeway continued, "You will never know for sure if you would've opened the shuttle given the opportunity. You never got that chance. If you want my opinion, I think you wouldn't have."

"I'm not so sure," Paris sadly shook his head.

"I am."

Paris opened his eyes. There was no guile on her face. She truly believed every word she had spoken. Feeling that he'd let her down, he whispered, "I lied on a report again. How can you ever trust me?"

"I don't consider what you did a lie," Janeway soothed. "Merely an omission. And, a rather unimportant one at that. After all, you were still in a great deal of pain when you wrote that report. It's understandable that you might forget something."

Unsure whether he should feel ashamed or relieved, Paris hid his face. He didn't want her to read the emotional struggle that was going on inside him. He knew it would be visible in his eyes. There was a basis for truth in her words. In the midst of each of the various torture sessions, he'd been ready to break. Sure that his struggle wasn't worth the sacrifice. Yet, each time they came for him, he'd continued to defy them. Maybe he would've done so again? There was only one way to know for sure; he had to return to Czalit and confront the man who haunted his dreams.

"Captain," he said, raising his eyes to meet hers, "I'd like to be included on the Away Team."

Janeway stared into the bright blue eyes in shocked surprise.

"Impossible," the Doctor imperiously replied for her, exiting his office. "You're not even recovered enough to return to your quarters. What makes you think I'll release you for a dangerous away mission?"

Wishing he had the strength to stand and confront them as they stood shoulder to shoulder against him, Paris protested, "This time we'll know what we're facing. We'll be prepared."

"There's one thing I've learned from all this," the Doctor growled, "there's no such word as safe when you're dealing with an alien culture."

"Captain," Paris appealed, unwittingly putting her at odds with the holographic physician, again, "please. I need to go. I need to face them when I'm the one in control."

Minutes ticked uncomfortably by before Janeway reluctantly acknowledged, "All right, Mr. Paris."

"Captain," the Doctor protested, "remember what happened the last time you went against my advice?"

Janeway winced, but didn't back down. Looking at Paris' hands, she said, "Sometimes, you have to take risks."

"Even when that risk could cost you your life?"

"Even then," Paris softly answered for her.

The Doctor frowned, "I wish my programming had included parameters on dealing with irrational patients."

"There are no such parameters, Doctor," Janeway smiled. "You'll just have to do what the rest of us do."

"And what's that?"

"Wing it."

***

Rough stone scrapped against tender flesh. Crillinozki barely noticed. The pain in his hands was too great for him to acknowledge this mild discomfort. He'd always been proud of his hands. The long fingers were an advantage playing a piannza. He'd been quiet talented. He'd produced such beautiful sounds from the instrument he'd considered training to be a professional piannzist. That had been his dream.

But, not his father's. As a Kestado, his father had known the power and wealth that the position offered. Advantages, he'd desired for his son. Ultimately, he'd also discovered the inherent danger. Crillinozki had followed in his father's footsteps in life. Now, he would do so in death as well.

A face glowed in the darkness. He recognized the wrinkled features of the old woman. She had been his first victim. She'd committed no crime. Yet, he'd tortured her for days. She was a test to see if he had the 'stomach' to be a Kestado. At her funeral, he'd stood next to her sister, his mother, unable to show his grief.

Other faces flew at him. Some were familiar, others a vague memory. The last lingered the longest. It was the Federation lieutenant. Crillinozki studied the unmarked face without remorse. Had he understood? Had any of them understood that he was only doing his duty?

***

Janeway entered the transporter room with mixed emotions. On the one hand, she was looking forward to teaching Yalanich a lesson. On the other, she worried about what the mission might do to Paris. Would it purge him of his demons or renew their power?

Upon entering the transporter room, she stopped in surprise. She'd expected Chakotay, Paris and three security guards to be waiting for her. She hadn't anticipated the Doctor's presence. "What are you doing here, Doctor?"

"Where my patient goes, I go," the physician defiantly replied. "I haven't certified Mr. Paris fit for duty yet."

"Noted," Janeway frowned, stepping onto the transporter platform. Facing forward, she pulled her phaser from its holster and ordered, "Energize."

The few seconds it took to re-materialize were the most dangerous. It was in those few seconds that the Cymalee could defeat his unexpected visitors. Janeway had depended on the fact that the Czalits knew nothing of transporter technology. They were too shocked at the sudden appearance of the away team to take advantage of the opportunity. When the man in a gray coat with a scarlet collar finally regained his senses and pulled a gun, an alert security guard quickly stunned him.

Janeway leveled her own weapon on Yalanich, "If you have a gun, Cymalee, I suggest you produce it. Now!"

The Czalit's hands flew into the air in surrender, "I'm unarmed."

While two of the security guards moved to cover the door, the third disarmed the downed officer.

"What is the meaning of this?" Yalanich blustered. "How dare you invade my palace?"

"How dare you torture one of my officer's?" Janeway angrily returned, moving around the desk to stand next to the frightened man. "We came in peace at your request. Our doctor saved your son's life, and you repay us by almost killing Mr. Paris."

"It was his own fault," Yalanich whined, backing away from Janeway, only to bump into Chakotay. "He wouldn't co-operate."

Disgusted by the Cymalee's excuse, Janeway said, "The Doctor tells me that your people believe that punishment should fit the crime. Unfortunately, our culture prohibits us from following that practice."

"You try to hurt me and my guards will come running," Yalanich nervously threatened. "They would all willingly die for me."

"Then they're all fools," Chakotay observed.

Pointing to the man lying on the floor, Yalanich said, "He will be given a hero's burial for trying to protect me."

"You might want to wait until he's dead before you bury him," Chakotay suggested.

"But . . ."

"He's only stunned," Janeway explained. "He'll come to in an hour or so. Except for a slight headache, he should be fine. We only kill when we have too, Cymalee."

"Such weaklings would never survive on Czalit," Yalanich sneered.

"I survived," Paris reminded him, crossing to the fallen man. "In spite of what he did to me."

"Ragonof was not the one who interrogated you."

"What?' Paris used his foot to turn the stunned man onto his back. The face that appeared was a stranger to him. "Where's Scarlet Collar?" he demanded.

A satisfied smile curving cruel lips, Yalanich nonchalantly folded his arms across his chest. "He occupies the cell that once was yours."

Paris stared at the man in shocked surprise, "Why?"

"He failed in his duty. Failure must be punished."

"How did he fail?"

"He didn't break you."

Janeway quickly moved to Paris' side and put a supporting hand under his arm. The young man had become deathly pale, making her fear he might collapse, "Tom?"

"I'm all right, Captain," the quiver in his voice belied his words. "I want to go to the cells."

"I don't think that's a good idea," the Doctor protested, the memory of his own visit visible on his expressive face.

"It's too dangerous," Janeway said, for once agreeing with the physician. "We don't know how to find them. We can't go wandering around. Who knows what we'll stumble across?"

Paris turned pleading eyes on his superior, "Yalanich can show us."

"Why would I do that?" the Cymalee taunted.

"Because I'll kill you if you don't."

"Your Captain just informed me you're not killers."

"We can kill when we need to. If you don't do what I want, I may just find a need."

Fear flashed across the leonine face, "All right. I'll show you."

"Captain?" Paris returned his attention to the woman at his side.

A battle waged inside Janeway. Did she expose the team to greater danger by leaving the Cymalee's office? Or, did she refuse Paris' request? The answer seemed so clear, until she looked into the pain-filled eyes of her helmsman. This time, it wasn't a physical pain that gripped him. It was a desperate longing to face his tormentor. Would the meeting help him heal? Or, would it send him fleeing to a place inside himself that not even Tuvok couldn't reach?

Torn, Janeway's gaze rested on the Doctor. Though he'd argued against visiting the cells, he had not done so in his usual vehement manner. Janeway studied the ingenuous face looking for answers. There were none. She was on her own. Though she wanted to follow the logical path, she knew she couldn't do that when emotions were concerned. She had to go with her heart.

Tapping her combadge, she called, "Janeway to Voyager."

"Tuvok here, Captain."

"We're going to be leaving this room, Mr. Tuvok."

"Is that advisable, Captain?"

Her eyes meeting Paris', Janeway said, "It's necessary, Mr. Tuvok. Be sure the transporter room keeps a lock on us."

"Understood, Captain."

"Janeway out." Waving her arm at the door, she bowed slightly toward Yalanich, "After you, Cymalee."

***

Blood flowed from the gashes on his back, warming his chilled skin. Tears squeezed out of the corner of his eyes and rolled down his face. Cold air blew across the path they left, numbing the flesh. As despair gripped him, Crillinozki started to laugh.

***

The putrid odor of decaying flesh wafted up the stairs. Paris stumbled, almost falling, when the familiar smell reached his nostrils. Why had he insisted on making this pilgrimage? What could he possibly learn that could ease his pain? Visiting the scene of his downfall could only re-enforce his belief that he was a coward.

A hand gripped his elbow, lending him strength. He turned his head, a smile of gratitude on his lips. The smile froze when his gaze rested on the Doctor. He'd expected it to be Janeway or Chakotay. He hadn't wanted the Doctor to see his weakness. The position gave him the authority to over-rule the Captain. Would he declare Paris unfit and have him beamed up to the ship? Paris knew he couldn't let that happen. He'd destroy his communicator first.

"Careful, Mr. Paris," the Doctor softly cautioned, "these steps are slippery."

At the bottom of the stairs, the hand withdrew without another word spoken. Paris nodded gratefully, before fixing his eyes on a rusty door halfway down the long corridor. He ignored the guards racing toward them. As he pushed past Yalanich, his ears registered the whine of a phaser. Stepping over a downed guard, he reached the cell that still inhabited his thoughts.

A piece of metal protruded from a hole in the door. Paris reached out to turn it. A hand grabbed his forearm stopping him.

"Allow me," the Doctor said, nodding at the membranes that protected Paris' healing hands.

A loud, familiar, screech echoed around them, making Paris shiver.

Grabbing the edge of the door to open it wider, the Doctor hesitated, "Are you sure this is what you want, Mr. Paris?"

"I'm sure." Paris hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

A cold breeze, that had been trapped inside the cell, flowed around him raising his flesh. Dropping to his knees, Paris peered through the narrow opening. Dim light filtered into the cell, outlining the nude man inside. His tall frame was bent at the waist. It was the only way he could fit in the tiny enclosure. It was impossible to see what else had been done to him, but Paris didn't need visible evidence. He already knew.

Throughout his own torture, all he'd wanted, prayed for, was that Scarlet Collar would someday experience the same pain and humiliation he inflicted on his victims. Now that day had come. Instead of feeling triumphant, Paris felt guilty. His stomach churned as his heart beat faster, making it difficult to breathe. No one deserved to be treated this way. Not even Scarlet Collar. "I'm sorry," Tom softly whispered.

A hand on his shoulder pushed Paris to the side. "Let me see what I can do," the Doctor growled.

"It's too late," Paris sadly informed him, moving to block the entrance.

"He's still breathing. He's not dead yet."

"More's the pity."

Shocked indignation flashed across the Doctor's face, "Don't you understand? I can save him."

"No!"

Puzzled, the Doctor asserted, "If I don't help him, I'd be nothing less than a murder."

"Think about what you'd be saving him for, Doctor." Paris shuddered, "Once we leave, they'll start on him again. Not even he deserves to be tortured twice."

The truth hit the Doctor, making him wince. Frowning, he said, "I don't understand why you insisted on coming down here if you never intended to help him."

"I am helping him. I'm letting him die."

The Doctor frowned, "You're contradicting yourself."

"In our world that would be true," Paris agreed. Rising to his feet, he let his sad gaze rest on the unconscious Cymalee, "But, it's not in his."

***

Unable to concentrate on the report flashing across his computer screen, the Doctor rose from his desk and crossed to a window. Voyager slowly moved out of orbit. Almost immediately, the powerful engines shifted into warp drive. The planet receded. Soon, it was only a light among many lights. A mere reflection of its sun.

Part of him was relieved. Anxious to put as much distance between them as possible. Another part was disappointed. He would've liked to have seen Jorry again. Not only to check on the boy's progress, but more importantly to say good-bye to his friend. He and Paris were alive because Jorry had learned about friendship. If the boy had the chance to teach others, the planet would have a brighter future. He was proud that he'd had a small hand in changing its destiny. Maybe Starfleet wouldn't agree. Maybe, he'd violated the Prime Directive. He didn't care. He didn't really save Jorry's life. The affliction wasn't life threatening. All he'd done was make that life more bearable. Having known what it means to suffer, Jorry would be a more benevolent ruler than his father.

"Hey, Doc?"

Wondering how long he'd been staring sightlessly out the window, the Doctor turned to face Tom Paris. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

"You ordered me to come in for my ten thousand mile check-up," Paris said, gazing in concern at the older man, "remember?"

"Of course I remember," the Doctor hastily agreed, leading the way to a biobed. "Lay down, please."

Unhappily complying, Paris asked, "Are you all right, Doc?"

"Better than you," the physician replied, frowning at the readings.

"You seem a little distracted," Paris pressed.

"I was thinking about Jorry," the Doctor reluctantly admitted.

"I wish I could've met him. I would've liked to have thanked him for saving my life."

"He wanted to meet you to."

"Why?"

Turning away to hide his embarrassment, the Doctor pretended to study the biobed's diagnostics. "Did you know there is no word in the Czalit language for friend? It's a concept they know nothing about."

"But they know now," Paris smiled understanding. "Is that why Jorry stole the communicator?"

The Doctor sheepishly nodded, "I never expected him to do that. He was fascinated by the concept of friendship, constantly asking what it entailed. I told him one of the things friends did was exchange presents. If I'd known he was going to steal from his own father, I would've been more circumspect."

"It was a dangerous thing he did," Paris agreed. "Still, he gave me the ultimate gift. He gave me my life."

"Which," the Doctor angrily reprimanded, "you'd better take good care of."

"I am."

"My instruments disagree. Your pain levels have risen, along with the electrolyte readings. Obviously, you're not taking the medication I prescribed."

His pale face flushing an angry red, Paris sat up, "I don't like the places your medicine sends me."

"Nevertheless," the Doctor said, barely listening to the excuse, "if you want to return to duty, your body has to heal. It will take longer without the medication."

"Then let it take longer."

"If you persist in defying my orders, I'll have to report you to the Captain."

"Fine!" Paris angrily regained his feet. "Report me."

The Doctor stared in wonder at the departing man, "What did I say?"

***

Though the Lieutenant's physical presence had long since disappeared, his sad face lingered, giving Crillinozki comfort. Death waited patiently for him, but he was no longer afraid. In fact, he welcomed it. It meant an end to his suffering. He had one man to thank for his imminent demise: the Federationer Paris. He'd never expected such generosity from a man he'd tortured. The aches and pains of his tormented body receded. He felt closer to Paris than he had any person in his life.

***

Janeway barely noticed the noise and activity that was as much a part of the holographic Sandrine's as the real cafe in France. A cry of triumph was quickly followed by a moan of despair from the competitors at the pool table. Janeway ignored them. Instead, she watched in silent sympathy as Kes bent and stretched her patient's long fingers. Despite the Ocampa's gentleness, Paris' face gleamed with sweat.

Something jabbed her in the hip, making her jump. Turning, she confronted an embarrassed Ensign Kim. The cue stick in his trembling hand shook.

"I'm sorry, Captain," Kim anxiously apologized.

"It's quite all right, Harry," Janeway soothed. "I shouldn't have been standing so close to the pool table."

Moving to a safer distance, Janeway returned her attention to her injured helmsman. He was very pale and obviously in a great deal of pain. Why had he chosen to have his therapy here? The Doctor was right. If Paris didn't start taking better care of himself, he was going to end up back in sickbay. 

She waited patiently for Kes to finish, before crossing to the secluded table. Even as she looked for a diplomatic way to ask Kes to leave, the young girl rose from her chair.

"Hello, Captain," Kes said, smiling a welcome. The smile disappeared when she shifted her gaze to Paris, "I'll see you tomorrow, Tom."

"Same time, same place," Paris flippantly agreed.

Frowning her disapproval, Kes walked away.

Concerned, Janeway slipped into the vacated seat, "What's going on, Tom?"

"Captain?"

"Don't play dumb with me," Janeway sternly ordered. "The Doctor says you aren't getting enough sleep." Waving a hand to encompass the holodeck, she added, "And now I find you having your therapy sessions in a bar. This is not what I'd call a conducive atmosphere for such an activity."

Somehow, Paris managed to look contrite and angry at the same time, "When I sleep, I dream. When I dream, I'm back in that hole. It's not a place I like to visit."

"I can understand that," Janeway said, shuddering as she remembered the dank, smelly cell. "But you've got to sleep. Doesn't medication help?"

"No!" Paris recoiled in horror. "I just need a little time, Captain. I'll be all right."

Janeway wanted to believe him. She almost let herself be swayed by the pleading blue eyes. He'd been through so much already, she didn't want to be the cause of more suffering. But, she wouldn't be doing him any favors by ignoring his problem. Even without a medical background, she could see that a breakdown was imminent. If she pushed too hard, she could do more harm than good. And, if she left him to work out his problems alone, she could lose him. She held his future in her hands - and it scared her to death.

Catching his eyes with her own, she said, "Tom, you told me you wanted to go back to Czalit to show them you were in control. Did it help?"

Paris stared unseeing at the pool table, "I thought it would. I wanted to show Scarlet Collar that he didn't win. That he hadn't broken me. I never imagined that he would take my place because he failed."

The guilt-laden voice tore at Janeway's heart, "You didn't put him in that cell, Tom. The society that he supported turned on him."

"He wasn't the big bad wolf I thought he was," Paris whispered, his voice cracking. "He was a man doing his duty, just like me. If we'd met under different circumstances, we might've been friends."

"I doubt it," Janeway ruthlessly declared, taking satisfaction in the surprised look that flashed across her companion's face. "Tom, what would you do if I ordered you to torture a prisoner?"

"I'd refuse," Paris said, without hesitation.

"Even if it meant spending seventy years in the brig for disobeying an officer?"

"Even then."

Janeway smiled, "That's the difference between you. He didn't refuse."

"His society . . ." 

"Society doesn't dictate right and wrong, conscience does. He knew what he did was wrong, but he did it anyway."

"They would've killed him if he hadn't."

"He did everything they wanted. They killed him when he failed. As he must've known they would. He sold them his soul, and they finally collected."

"Damned if you do and damned if you don't."

Janeway nodded as the words she'd spoken to the Doctor under different circumstances were repeated. Laying a hand on her troubled helmsman's arm, she gently admonished, "You aren't responsible for what happened down there, Tom. You were the victim. Once you accept that, I think you'll be able to sleep without dreaming." 

"I'll try, Captain."

"If there's anything I can do, all you have to do is ask."

Paris hesitated, before appealing, "Captain, what was his name?"

She didn't ask who he was referring too, she already knew, "I'm sorry, I don't know. If it's important, you could ask the Doctor. He might know."

Paris frowned as he looked down at his hands. Scars still scored the puffy pink flesh, "I'm not sure why, but it's important."

Wondering if she'd accomplished anything, Janeway rose. It was times like this when she disliked being a captain. She could feel Paris' pain, but she could do nothing to alleviate it. She hoped the Doctor would be more successful.

***

Paris strolled down the corridor, ignoring the sympathetic looks of two passing crewmen. Though only a few knew the details, almost everyone knew about his ordeal. He was discovering that compassion could be as difficult to swallow as hostility. How could he trust these new feelings. Not so long ago, those same two ensigns had looked upon him with contempt. They'd judged him without knowing who he was, only what he'd done at Caldik Prime. They still didn't know him. Yet, because of what he'd endured, he'd become a different person in their eyes.

Though he'd planned to continue on his present course, Paris turned a corner, hoping to escape the curious stares. His senses barely had time to register the presence of an obstacle before he collided with it. Still weak, he absorbed the contact, rather than repelling it. Winded, he fell against the wall, hoping he wouldn't make a bigger fool of himself by falling flat on his face.

"Why the hell don't you look where you're going?"

B'Elanna's angry voice identified the object he'd collided with. Even more embarrassed, Paris fought to regain his breath so he could apologize.

"Tom! I'm sorry," B'Elanna's tone became conciliatory. "I didn't know it was you."

Angry that even Torres was treating him different, Paris snapped, "It was my fault."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

Noting the arm protecting his abdomen and the sweat dotting his pale face, B'Elanna said, "You don't look fine."

"What do you care?"

"This may sound strange, but I'm your friend. Caring comes with the territory."

Taken aback by her reply, Tom stared at her. He hadn't expected her to reveal her feelings. Rarely, if ever, did she admit, even to herself, that she felt close enough to someone to call them friend. He felt as though he'd been given a wonderful gift. Was this the same feeling Jorry had experienced when he realized the Doctor was his friend?

Worried by his silence, B'Elanna put a hand on his elbow, "I think I better take you to sickbay."

"No," Paris straightened, his breathing slow and even once more. "Really, I'm all right."

"What are you doing wandering around this late?"

"I don't like to sleep." Expecting derision, Paris was amazed to see understanding in the dark eyes.

"Mind if I walk with you for a while?" 

Astonished by the request, Paris waged a silent battle within himself. Fighting the demons that invaded his thoughts, even in his waking hours, he wasn't at his most congenial. Yet, he craved companionship, particularly B'Elanna's. Her offer made him think that maybe she was starting to see him as more than just a friend.

"Well?" she impatiently demanded. "That wasn't a difficult question."

"Thank you. I'd like that."

They walked in silence. Paris was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable he felt in her presence. She'd called him friend. He hadn't thought their relationship had advanced that far, at least in her eyes. Right now, he felt closer to her than he had anyone in his life. The feeling confused him. Growing up, he'd had many acquaintances, but few friends. No one that had stood by him after Caldik Prime. He wished he'd known B'Elanna Torres then. Somehow he knew she wouldn't have turned her back on him.

"So," Torres cleared her throat, "when will you be able to return to duty?"

Paris looked at his hands, "As soon as these are as flexible as they once were."

"When will that be?" B'Elanna gently ran a fingertip across a scar that ran along the back of his hand.

"As soon as humanly possible."

"I hope so," B'Elanna sighed, "I never thought I'd say this, but the bridge isn't the same without you."

Tears welled in Paris's eyes. He didn't want to scare her off, but one day, he would tell her how much her confession had healed his soul. "I miss it," he finally whispered.

"Vorik to Torres."

Sighing with frustration, Torres tapped her combadge, "Go ahead."

"A relay on a warp core conduit is flashing a warning light."

"Is it the same one I was working on this morning?"

"Affirmative. That's why I contacted you instead of repairing it myself."

A balled fist showing her frustration, Torres said, "I'm on my way."

"No rest for the wicked," Paris muttered, disappointed that she would have to leave.

Torres had taken a few steps toward engineering before returning her attention to her companion, "Will you be all right? Do you want me to walk you to your quarters or sickbay?"

"That's all right," Paris said, waving his hand to release her. "You have more important things to do."

"No, I don't," Torres contradicted, turning to face him. "That conduit can get fixed without my assistance, if you need me more?"

Warmed by her concern, but knowing how important her engines were to her, Paris shook his head, "I'm fine."

"I'd find that easier to believe if you weren't so pale."

"All I need is some time in Neelix's resort program."

"Yeah, right."

"I'll go to sickbay, if that'll make you feel better." He wasn't about to tell her that had been his original destination before bumping into her.

Reluctantly turning away, Torres called, "You better, I'll be checking up on you."

As he watched her walk away, Paris bit his lip to keep from summoning her back. He couldn't remember the last time anyone cared about what happened to him - besides Janeway and Harry Kim. As his captain, Janeway's consideration was more on a professional level. At least, that's what he'd thought. B'Elanna's obvious concern made him wonder if he'd been wrong.

***

The Doctor reviewed the scans one more time. In the past, once would've been enough. Then, he'd had complete confidence in his medical skills. His inexcusable failure to prevent Tom Paris from being tortured had left him doubting his abilities, even as a doctor.

However, according to the latest tests, Paris would fully recover. Though it would take longer than the impatient lieutenant wanted, even his hands would regain full mobility. The information partially relieved his guilty conscience.

The doors to sickbay opened. Anticipating an emergency, the Doctor rose from behind his desk. Surprise at the identity of his visitor was quickly followed by concern, "Mr. Paris, are you all right?"

"Believe it or not, Doc," Paris smiled, "I've never felt better in my life."

Running a scanner along his patient's body, the Doctor shook his head, "I find that impossible to believe. Your pain levels are still much too high, and there's a new bruise on your chest. What have you been up too?"

"Walking."

"That activity should not result in further injuries."

"Then you've never run into a Klingon."

"I'll forgo the pleasure."

Paris clapped the doctor on the shoulder, "You don't know what you're missing, Doc."

"Severe bruising for one thing." Laying down his scanner, the Doctor sniffed, "Do I take it that Lieutenant Torres has something to do with your improved disposition?"

Wonder replaced the smile on Paris' face, "She said I was her friend. You don't know how much that meant to me."

Remembering the delight on a small boy's face, the Doctor contradicted, "I think I do."

"Knowing you're not alone somehow makes the pain more bearable."

Guilt returned gnawing at the Doctor's self-control, "Lieutenant, I'd like you to know how sorry I am."

"About what?" A puzzled frown wrinkled Paris' brow.

"That I didn't do anything to stop them from torturing you."

"There was nothing you could've done."

"But, I didn't even try."

"If you had, it would've made no difference," Paris calmly soothed. "Making friends with Jorry, so that he got the communicator is what made the difference."

The Doctor glanced away in embarrassment, "I feel I failed you."

"You didn't."

"It was my first away mission," the Doctor unnecessarily reminded him. "I'll do better next time."

Exasperated, Paris slowly enunciated, "You . . . did . . . nothing . . . wrong."

"Then why did it end so disastrously?"

"It only seems like it did to you. We're both alive. That's a pretty successful ending in my book."

"It's all wrong," the Doctor asserted. "No one should suffer the way you did."

"With any luck, our visit will eventually end the suffering," Paris encouraged, turning to leave.

"Lieutenant," the Doctor put out a hand to stop him, "was there another reason why you stopped by?"

Paris thoughtfully studied his scarred hands, "There was something I wanted to know. Now it doesn't seem so important."

"I'll be here if you change your mind."

"I know, Doc. Thanks."


End file.
